


Winchester & Sons, Outfitters

by tikistitch



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Basilisks, M/M, Unicorns, Wingfic, Wyverns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-09 17:08:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1990941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tikistitch/pseuds/tikistitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winchester family has been guiding city slickers on hunts for revenants, werecats and unicorns for over two decades.  When a group of feuding brothers buzzes into town intent on slaying a dragon, Dean meets an angel with eyes as blue as the Big Sky, and learns that fairies are definitely a thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The tale of the Garden is partially based on the fairy tale, King Goldenlocks by Schönwerth, translated by Tatar. Bobby's hunting dogs are based on the Catahoula cur. Also, I think this will be 5 parts, but I haven't broken it into chapters yet. The final draft is about 30,000 words.

_Fifteen years ago…._

Dean awoke before the dawn. He yawned and tried to push himself up, only to find his right arm was pinned down. He blinked and tried to focus his eyes: Sammy, all skinny legs and bony elbows, had crawled into bed with him again. The heating was tetchy, and it could get cold up here on these late autumn nights. He smiled and grabbed Sam's raggedy teddy bear (the one he would never admit he still slept with), and then pushed it into the boy's grasp as he carefully extricated himself from the bed without waking his younger brother. Sammy moaned and then wrapped himself around the bear and drifted back to his dreams.

The bare wooden floor was cold beneath Dean's feet, so he grabbed on a pair of socks and then another pair of thick wool socks. And then jeans and several layers of shirts. He picked his boots but did not don them, and exited his room being careful to shut the door quietly behind himself. And then he padded downstairs.

Dad was already awake, sitting at the table, cleaning his gun. His cigarette sat in a plastic Budweiser ashtray, smoke curling up in a fine white trail. Dean nodded and went over to the coffee pot, standing on tiptoe to get himself down a mug, and then added a splash of coffee and a lot of milk.

“Don't use up all the milk. Your brother still has to have breakfast,” John scolded. Dean reluctantly put the carton back in the fridge, and contented himself with shoveling several heaping teaspoons of sugar into the milky mixture. He then set his mug down on the kitchen table next to his dad's, pulled up a chair and began to lace up his boots.

A motor roared, and gravel crunched beneath heavy tire treads. Headlights flashed through the gaps in the shutters. “Uncle Bill is here,” said Dean, trying but failing to conceal his excitement.

“Well, let 'em in,” John grunted.

Dean raced over and threw open the door. “Hey Uncle Bill. Aunt Ellen.”

“Hey yourself,” said Bill, holding the door for Ellen, who carried little Jo in her arms. 

“Hey, squirt!” Dean called to Jo. She giggled, and buried her face in her mother's arms.

“Oh, you've decided to be shy today?” Ellen asked as she seated herself at the kitchen table. “All she could talk about on the way over is how she was going to see Dean.”

“How you like that, John?” said Bill, who put an affectionate hand through his daughter’s straw-colored hair. “Maybe we’ll be in-laws some day!”

“What?” said Dean, as Jo giggled and then hid from him once again.

“You ready for your first hunt?” Bill asked Dean.

“Yes sir!” Dean answered immediately. 

“What’s happening?” came a soft, sleepy voice from the stairway. Sam was standing there, barefooted, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, dragging along T. Bear by a single paw.

“Sam gots a teddy,” giggled Jo.

“Do not do not,” Sam grunted as the two children exchanged protruding tongues at one another.

“Your brother’s going hunting this morning,” John informed his younger boy. Dean felt bursting with pride.

“I wanna go,” Sam whined. “I wanna go wif Dean.”

“Well, not yet, son,” said Bill. “You’re not big enough.”

“Dean’s still a little young, if you ask me,” Ellen huffed, which earned a sharp glance from John. Dean wasn’t supposed to hear, but he had caught them exchanging words about it. Aunt Ellen obviously didn’t understand: Dean was almost 12. He was practically a teenager now.

“I’m big!” Sam protested as he wriggled up into one of the kitchen chairs, making certain that T. Bear was situated next to him.

“You’re gonna stay here with me today, honey,” Ellen told him. “We’ll make some muffins. Would you like that?”

“With buckleberries?” Sammy asked.

“You should make a huckleberry pie, Aunt Ellen!” Dean gushed. He’d helped pick the sweet, juicy berries last summer, when the days were still long and lazy, and then he’d leant a hand to canning them. They were a little sour for a pie, so the secret was you added in some blueberries. For just one short instant, Dean regretted that he was going out, instead of staying here and baking something delicious. But there was work to be done. 

There was the sound of gravel crunching outside, and hounds baying. “That’ll be Bobby,” said Bill. “Let’s get a move on.” He leaned over to give Ellen a quick kiss, and then headed out the door, followed by a wordless John.

“Cook us up something good, Sammy. I’ll be back soon!” Dean told his little brother. Sammy looked crushed, but held up T. Bear’s paw to wave goodbye. Jo giggled and ducked beneath the table top.

And then Dean was outside, shivering in the cold autumn wind. 

“Wanna ride along with me, boy?” asked Bobby, who was standing next to his truck, surrounded by hounds. Dean scrambled into the passenger seat. “Load up!” Bobby barked, and as the other dogs hopped back up into the pickup, one of the hounds bounded into Dean’s lap. 

“Waylon, if you’re ridin’ in the cab ya dumb cur, you’re on the damned floor!” Bobby scolded. The dog leapt to the floorboards, and then was back on Dean’s lap an instant later, Bobby cursing it out. Dean laughed, and gave the brindle-furred beast a scratch behind the ears. It rolled a pair of strange, glassy eyes towards him, its long, pink tongue lolling. No one was quite certain about the origin of the hunting dogs: some said they came from stock Native Americans had bred with dogs brought over by Conquistadors. Others claimed they originated from the local wolf breeds. But all agreed there was no better handler around than Bobby Singer.

“It’s too damned cold to open the window!” Bobby scolded it, but Dean cranked it down anyway as the hunting hound shoved its sensitive nose out through the crack, taking a whiff of the chill wind.

“Where are we headed?” Dean asked.

“Last place it’s been spotted: up in the Milligan’s back pasture.”

Dean regarded Bobby. “That’s pretty near town.”

“Too near. Which is why we’re gonna take care of it. You sure you’re ready for this?”

Dean bristled. He hoped Uncle Bobby was going to try to talk him out of this. “I’m ready.”

“Now, don’t get your back up,” Bobby hushed. He must have sensed something in Dean’s tone. “This is something you just don’t know about, not until you’re about to pull the trigger. No one can tell you how you’re gonna react. If you wanted, you could just say the word, and you’d spend today watchin’. Nobody would hold it against you.”

As if in agreement with Bobby’s statement, the hunting hound turned around and gave Dean a big, sloppy kiss. “Hey!” Dean wiped off dog slobber with the back of his hand while Bobby reached over and gave the dog an indulgent pat on the head. Bobby was lying: there was one person who would definitely hold it against Dean if he didn’t go through with it today, and that person was riding along in Bill’s truck.

They rumbled off the road and eventually parked on a raw patch of ground out near the Milligan property. This ground was low lying, and tended to be swampy when the snow up high melted off, so it wasn’t good for cultivation, and had been left wild. The men sorted through their equipment. “Hup!” Bobby called, and the hounds sat down, still sniffing and wagging eager tails. John and Bill brought out their guns and made a final check, nodding to Bobby.

Dean took in a breath.

“Find it,” Bobby ordered.

The hounds suddenly stilled, the odd glassy eyes unfocused, ears cocked. There was no noise but the rustle of leaves in the wind. Legend was these dogs had originally been bred to seek large game, back before folks figured out they had other uses. It always gave Dean the shivers, when they turned from tongue-lolling clowns to stoney silence like that.

And then abruptly they all took off, first Waylon and then the rest of the pack, heading down towards the lower fields, all following something that was not sight nor smell nor sound, but something else. Bobby followed, and Dean was hot on his heels, and then Bill and John behind them, trying but failing to match the sure-footed hounds as they disappeared into the unknown of the forest.

They marched through the forest for a while, the four men alone with their thoughts. Dean was grateful that the fast pace helped him throw off the chill. It was going to be a hard winter Bobby had said: he could tell from his dogs’ coats, or so he claimed. John said the shaggy beasts all looked like they needed a good shave, and volunteered to do the job himself, but John tended to say things after he’d had a few. Thankfully, Uncle Bill and Aunt Ellen usually kept him from actually doing anything, now that Mom was gone. 

Dean was startled out of his reverie. Bobby was bending over his lead dog, who had returned already. This was either a very good or a very bad sign.

“Show me,” Bobby muttered. Waylon bounded off, and the party hastened after it. They came to the edge of a clearing above a trickling stream, where the other dogs in the pack were milling around. Bobby stilled them with a muttered, “Hud,” and he pushed aside some foliage and peered through it, Dean next to him.

“See it?” Bobby whispered to Dean.

The dogs had led them to high ground overlooking one of the lesser tributaries of Decorum Creek. It was only really a river during a flood. Today it was more a soggy marsh with a slow-moving thread of water weaving around the middle. Dean squinted and cast his eyes around. There it was, crouching by the stream. It might have been catching a drink. Did these things drink? Dean silently cursed himself for not knowing such things. He nodded, and Bobby let the branch drop. Bobby pointed further down the bank, where they’d get a better shot, and Bill signaled that he and John would head towards the opposite bank. It was a good idea, in case Dean’s shot missed. He uttered a silent prayer that he wouldn’t miss as his father, with a curt nod, took off with Uncle Bill.

Being extra careful where he placed his feet, Dean followed Bobby and the hounds downstream, to try and get a closer shot. Bobby found a likely spot, and motioned for Dean to get down beside him. And then they waited for Dean’s father and Bill Harvelle to get into position.

“You all set, boy?” Bobby whispered as Dean was settled down on his belly, checking his rifle for the millionth time. He peered through the sight. The thing was still there. He wasn’t certain if he was relieved or frightened by this. Dean nodded. “I’m gonna call the dogs now.” Dean cringed, but nodded.

“Sound,” said Bobby.

As one, the dogs threw their heads back and opened their mouths.

And not a sound came out.

Well, not a sound that you could hear. Not a sound that any mortal ears could hear.

Dean tried to keep his breathing even as a shiver arced down his spine. There was motion down below. The thing was moving, probably looking around. It could probably sense the hounds now, but wouldn’t know where they were. Dean squinted down the sight. The rifle was cold steel in his hands.

The thing stood up.

Dean froze, finger on the trigger. His dad and Uncle Bill were probably getting nervous now.

He shot a glance at Bobby. “It looks…. It looks _human_.”

Bobby nodded, staring down at the revenant. “It was. Once. Long time ago.”

Dean turned his attention back to the cursed creature, which was now turning its head back and forth, back and forth. Another moment, and it would be off, out of range. 

“You’re all right, son,” said Bobby.

Dean gritted his teeth. Forcing all his attention to his rifle, he aimed and, with shaking hands, pulled the trigger.

The rifle sounded. 

The dogs silenced.

The revenant took off. It ran three steps, and then pitched forward. It lay in the mud, twitching. John and Bill were already running, holding silver spikes in their hands.

Dean picked himself up. He was shaking like a leaf. Bobby put a steadying hand on his shoulder. 

“It looked human, Uncle Bobby. It looked like a man.”

Bobby stared at Dean. “You’re a good kid, Dean. You’re gonna be a good man.” And then with a squeeze of Dean’s shoulder, he was calling the dogs, and they all headed down, towards the creature. 

Dean’s very first kill.


	2. Chapter 2

_The present day…._

“You already picked up your mail today, Beth,” said Bobby. The storefront was cluttered. It wasn't exactly clear what the proprietor – Bobby Singer – thought he was selling. There were some general grocery items: packages of Oreos here, cartons of fresh cream there. The cooler was well stocked with beer. But there were also hardware items, fishing rods and reels, and a rack of Ghostbusters action figures over by the door.

There were also brindle-coated dogs asleep here and there.

Gramma Harvelle stood in the middle of the shop, gaping, her eyes distracted. “I came to pick up my package.”

“You already done that today,” Bobby assured her. “And I told you, no packages.” He picked up the phone. “Why don’t you just have a sit down, and I’ll call Ellen to come get ya?” Bobby shooed a hound off of a cracked leather armchair near the front door, and bade Beth to sit down. The dog blinked cracked-glass colored eyes and laid down at her feet.

“Don’t call Murray,” she warned Bobby. “He’s got another woman! I know he does.”

“Well, ain’t that too bad?” said Bobby, clucking his tongue in sympathy. He was courteous enough not to mention that her husband was most probably in no position to commit adultery, due to the fact of not being alive these past two decades.

The doorbell jingled, and Dean Winchester strutted into the store with the air of a rich bachelor entering the Playboy club. “Hey, Bobby, has the UPS guy shown up yet?”

“Dave was here earlier. Got your package,” said Bobby. “It’s in the back.”

“I came here for a package,” Gramma Harvelle volunteered as Bobby ducked into the back.

“You did?” asked Dean, hopping up on the counter and chat. “Well, did Bobby give it to you?” Bobby returned with a small package addressed to “Winchester & Sons, Outfitters.” The return address had a funny logo that looked somewhat like a Star of David that had gotten squashed.

“No, he did not,” sulked Gramma Harvelle.

Dean grinned, seizing his package with greedy hands. “Bobby, stealing packages again!” He grabbed a pair of scissors from off the counter and started to slit open the packing tape.

Bobby heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes. “You just sit tight, Gramma. Ellen will be right here.”

“You gonna bake me a huckleberry pie, Gramma?” asked Dean as he tore open his package.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“I'm Dean Winchester. John’s boy. Same as yesterday. Oh, sweet!” he exclaimed. He had extracted a smaller box from the shipping carton, and was now marveling at the contents: a handful of shiny silver bullets.

“Thought you made your own silver bullets, son,” said Bobby. “Didn't your daddy show you how?”

Dean pulled out a bullet and held it up to the light. “Yeah, but these have a devil's trap etched on the sides, see? Double duty!”

Bobby pulled out a pair of half glasses. He held up the bullets and squinted at it. “Huh. Well don't that beat all?”

“Cool, huh?” asked Dean.

Bobby was shaking his head. “But they're gonna get distorted when you fire 'em.”

“Naw. They'll be fine.”

“Wouldn't bet my life on it.”

The doorbell jangled once again, and a flush-faced Jo Harvelle came pushing into the store, brushing long blond hair out of her eyes. “Grammy, there you are.”

“Ellen?” asked Gramma Harvelle.

“No, it's Jo,” sighed Jo.

“Jo is just a baby,” Gramma corrected.

“Joanna Beth, our little baby,” snarked Dean. 

Jo flipped him off. “Hey, did my new knives come in yet, Bobby?”

“Dave didn't leave me nothin' for ya.”

“God dammit.”

“New knives? You having the Queen of England over for steaks, Jo?” asked Dean.

Jo turned to snort at Dean. “No, smart ass. There's supposed to be a revenant over on the Clark Fork.”

“Oh.” Dean went serious, if only for a brief moment. “We could help. I know a thing or two about revenants.”

Jo steeled herself. “Don't need your help. Grammy, let's go.”

The old woman stayed put. “I want my package. I came here for my package.”

“Bobby stole her package,” Dean chuckled, earning himself a glare from both Bobby and Jo.

Another car pulled into the gravel driveway. The door jangled, and Sam Winchester, all six foot something of him, filled up Bobby's doorway. “Dean, we gotta get going,” he said. He was dressed in a nice, crisp white dress shirt, and was currently twisting a striped tie into something that resembled a hangman's knot.

“Uh, why are we doing that? And what's with the tie? You getting married?”

Sam flashed Bitch Face Number 127. “Gotta get to the airport. Like, _now_. The hunting party is here.”

Dean didn't budge from the counter. “I thought Dad arranged all that. Where is he today, anyway?”

Sam went from frustrated to livid. “Where is he ever, when you need him?” He looked down at his tie, which was now hopelessly knotted. “Out on another bender, probably,” he muttered, but loud enough to hear.

“God dammit,” said Dean. “Well, cool your jets, little brother, we'll go meet 'em then.” Thoughtlessly tossing the package aside, he slid gracefully off the counter and started to extricate his sweating, oversized brother from the Necktie of Doom. 

“You guys got a hunting party coming in?” asked Jo. 

“Not just any party,” said Sam, puffing with pride. “ _Angels_.”

Bobby took off his reading glasses and glowered. “Angels? Why in the name of creation are you idjits fucking around with angels?”

Sam gave a big-shouldered shrug. “It's Dad's deal. I dunno. But they're paying us well. This will get the company through the season. And more.” And he added a significant glance at Dean.

“You need help?” asked Jo, who had momentarily forgotten about her grandmother.

“Thought you were busy slicing and dicing revenants?” sassed Dean. 

“You boys be damned careful dealin' with angels,” Bobby told them. 

Jo sat back on the arm of her grandmother’s chair, going a little dreamy-eyed. “I've heard they're real pretty.”

“Not as pretty as me,” said Dean, which earned a swat from Jo.

“You're about as pretty as a train wreck,” Jo sneered.

Bobby was still in high dudgeon, using his eyeglasses as a pointer. “Angels may look like us, but they're not. The play by their own rules.”

“Well, we gotta get going, and now,” said Sam, giving his tie a last glance in the glass surface of the soft drink cooler. “C'mon!”

Dean followed his brother out of the store. “Oh, you brought my baby?” he moaned, regarding the shiny black Chevy Impala parked in the front parking lot. “I was gonna put her away for the season!”

“I wanna make a good impression, Dean.” Sam gave his most disarming expression. “And we couldn't make a better impression than this, could we?” Pulling at his tie, he grinned and tossed the keys to Dean, who thought to look down and ascertain his own present wardrobe situation. At least he was dressed in a more or less clean Henley and not some old Metallica T-shirt today. 

Dean drove the Impala, and Sam followed in John’s pickup truck, making for the airport on the edge of town. It actually wasn't so much an airport as a glorified vacant lot. There was a single, pre-fab tin-sided building sitting to one side, and a lazy windsock flapping in the breeze. And out beyond the tarmac, a disinterested moose grazed on the underbrush. 

Ellen Harvelle was already in the parking lot, leaning against her minivan. The van had a magnetic sticker on the door, “Harvelle's Roadhouse.” “Where you boys been?” she asked, glancing down at her sensible Ladies Timex watch.

“I was at Bobby’s,” Dean explained. “I just got in some new silver bullets.”

“Bobby’s? You boys see Jo? Did she get Gramma Harvelle home?”

“She was trying,” Dean laughed. “But Bobby stole her package.”

“He _what_?” asked Sam.

Ellen sighed. “She's been wandering away a lot. So far, she generally ends up at Bobby's, but I'm worried about what's gonna happen when the weather gets colder.”

“Sorry, Ellen,” said Sam.

“She's been going downhill since Murray died. And she seems worse off since Bill’s been gone.”

Sam and Dean glanced uncomfortably at each other. Bill Harvelle had died while out guiding a hunt along with John Winchester. Nobody had ever specifically pointed the finger at John – after all, accidents happened – but everyone knew he had a tendency for recklessness since his wife passed, as well as a taste for the drink. It was a sore point between the families. But since both had made a business of guiding hunters, it was one they usually tip-toed around. 

“You always could borrow one of Bobby's dogs to track her down,” Dean suggested.

“Hard for that man to let go of one of his mutts, but you might be right. Are you gonna be on hand to help me out in the kitchen, Dean?”

Dean booted up his most disarming expression. “Me?”

“You, kiddo! I haven't had a full house for a while. And your Daddy has invited in a posse of snooty angels to cook for.”

“Aw, I haven't cooked in a while, Ellen....” It was a rather poorly kept secret that Dean liked messing around in the kitchen almost as much as he liked eating. Which was quite a lot.

The door to the Quonset hut that served as the airport office burst open. “Hey, dudes!” shouted Ash, who was standing in the doorway, headphones wrapped around his lush mullet. “Your angels are landing soon.”

“Was I the only one in town who didn't know angels were arriving today?” Dean groused.

Sam had a hand covering his eyes. “Where's the plane?” 

“They're not in a plane, dudes!” yelled Ash, before retreating back inside with no further explanation.

Sam, Dean, and Ellen exchanged confused glances. “Are they flying in on feathery wings?” asked Dean, making little flapping motions with his hands.

“You need to shut up about wings and feathers when they're here!” scolded Sam. “That's a sore point!”

“And I suppose no halo jokes? You take away all my fun, Sammy.”

But then, right in the middle of some run of the mill Winchester sniping, they heard the roar of engines and the whirl of rotors. 

“A fucking helicopter?” asked Dean, as Sam grinned and Ellen shook her head. “Who are these guys?” Dean was no expert, but the big vessel coming in for a landing didn't resemble the usual corporate helicopter, either. In fact it looked an awful lot like a military bird like you'd see in the movies – a Black Hawk, to be specific.

Sam straightened his lapels and began to saunter out towards the copter before the rotors had even stopped whirling. Ellen approached along with him, Dean hanging back a few paces. Sam would be better at putting up a cool front for these city people. He was university educated after all. He had actually agreed to delay going on to law school for a full year in order to pull the company back into the black. After one good season, so the reasoning went, Dean and his dad could take over. Well, really, _Dean_ could take over. John Winchester, in his way, was getting to be as unreliable as Gramma Harvelle. 

The door popped open, and a trim, dark-haired man with light grey eyes stepped out. He was wearing a very expensive, well-tailored suit. He looked cool and confident.

Dean immediately disliked him.

More of them were filing out now, all wearing suits. Did they just fly in from a board meeting or something? There was a dark-skinned man carrying a briefcase and wearing a sour expression. And also a tall, silent man – he was nearly as tall as Sam, though he was a bit broader in the shoulders.

“John Winchester?” asked the dark-haired man. He looked questioningly between Sam, who had reached out to shake his hand, and Dean.

“That's our father. I'm Sam Winchester, and this is my brother Dean. And this is our good friend, Ellen Harvelle, owner of the Roadhouse. Welcome to-”

“We made our arrangements with _John Winchester_ ,” the black-haired man insisted.

“We made arrangements with Winchester & Sons, _Michael_ ,” the briefcase man reminded him. 

“I'm aware of that, _Raphael_ ,” Michael responded, a bit too quickly. 

Dean wondered if angels were always this snippy. Given that he had little prior acquaintance with angels, he wasn’t qualified to judge.

“May we expect John Winchester to accompany us on the hunt?” Michael inquired of Sam. It was clearly not a request, but a demand.

“Yes, of course,” said Sam, who could assure no such thing. Dean demurred, though he supposed it would end up being his job to dry out Dad enough to drag his sorry ass home. 

“You folks wanna come along get settled in?” Ellen diplomatically interjected. “Probably not what you're used to, but we call it home.”

“I'm certain your accommodations will be outstanding, Ellen,” said Michael, with a charming smile and a courteous hand on her shoulder. 

Yeah, Dean really hated the son of a bitch.

The angels began herding towards the minivan. “See to our luggage,” the one named Raphael called over his shoulder.

Sam rolled his eyes at Dean. “I'll throw their crap in the back of Dad’s truck,” Dean whispered to him. “You go ahead and mend fences.”

“Thanks, Dean.”

Dean turned and grabbed a pack that was sitting on the tarmac. But someone else's hand was already on it.

He straightened, and gazed up into a pair of eyes blue and wondrous as the wide sky. 

“I got it,” came a low voice that, as if Dean hadn't already been unnerved by the eyes, sent shivers down his spine.

“Uh. No, that's OK. I got it,” said Dean.

The man straightened up. He was wearing a dark suit, though it looked somehow less well-fitted than Michael’s. The blue tie had somehow gotten flipped around, and his long trench coat was wrinkled. His hair was going every which way, and he looked like he needed a shave and a good night's sleep.

And somehow, Dean couldn't stop staring.

“You gonna get a move on, Cassie?” came another voice. The pilot was standing in the helicopter's doorway, head cocked, crooked grin on his face. “Don't want Mikey to pitch a fit.”

“Are you certain you can handle loading all of our baggage?” Blue Eyes asked Dean.

Somehow, Dean's brain struggled to shift out of Park. “Uh. Yeah. Sure.”

The man nodded and crouched down, springing open the door on a small, grated piece of luggage. There was a dark flash, and suddenly a small black cat was perched up on his shoulders. He stood up, and now two pairs of blue eyes were peering at Dean.

With a nod, he was in the minivan. The door shut with a clang, and Dean watched it drive off, while Sam followed along behind in the Impala.

“You wanna hand with that luggage, Freckles?” asked the pilot, who was tossing equipment out of the helicopter and somewhat carelessly to the tarmac.

“Dean. I'm Dean.” It took him a beat or two to remember his own name. He shook his head, and started loading the luggage and equipment in back of his truck.

“Gabe,” the pilot volunteered. 

“And that's.... That was … Cassie?”

“ _Castiel_ ,” Gabe corrected. “ _I_ can call him Cassie. Not you. He's my little bro.”

That got Dean's attention. “Oh, you're one of the angels too?” This one was casually dressed, and looked like he might even have a sense of humor.

“In the flesh. I prefer to avoid the Mike and Raph show though.”

“So, this is probably a stupid question....”

“There's no such thing as a stupid question, only stupid people.”

“That helicopter, it looks military.”

Gabriel paused, and the grin seemed genuine. “Hey, you're not as dumb as you look, pretty boy. Yeah, it's a Sikorsky. They make the Black Hawk. But all decked out the way the way Mikey likes it, with chinchilla seats and hot and cold running porn on the video screens.”

Dean chuckled. “Are all angels like you?”

An eyebrow waggled up. “You wish. And now that I've answered your stupid question, can you tell me where I can buy an airplane around here?”

Once again, Dean was thrown for a loop. “What?”

“This hunt Mikey's got planned for us? You can only _fly_ into the location, correct-a-mundo?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Well, then I'm doing the transport, since I'm the only one Mikey trusts to fly his angel ass. I've been reading up on bush planes, and got something specific in mind: Piper Super Cub, or maybe a Cessna 180 or 185.”

So the angel considered himself a qualified bush pilot? Dean wondered if the rest of them would turn out to be this arrogant. “The only one around here with those kinds of planes would be Rufus Turner, over in Twin Falls. We were already gonna have him fly us out, actually.” 

“Cool.” Gabriel started rummaging through the luggage.

“But he's not gonna sell his gear. He's real sentimental about those planes.”

“Hey, money talks.” Gabe had unzipped a sports bag. He reached in and casually withdrew a stack of bills, which he stuffed into his jacket.

“Holy cats!”

“It's good to be an angel.” Gabe slapped the pile of luggage sitting in the truck. “All packed? Does this Twin Falls place have an airfield?”

“Yeah. It's just a landing strip and a Quonset hut, like here.”

“Cool, then I'm taking off.” Gabe sauntered back to the helicopter, but then turned back and shouted.  
“By the way. In answer to the question you're too much of a chickenshit to ask, no, he's not seeing anyone, never been married or engaged, and so help me if you break his heart, I'll pull yours out through your nostrils. Good luck.” And then the door slammed shut, and the rotors engaged.

Dean was thoughtful on the way to Harvelle's. Sam came out to help with the angel luggage, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. “We've gotta-”

“Find Dad?” Dean asked. “Yeah. I've got a couple ideas where he might be holed up.”

Sam put a hand through his too-long hair. “I guess angels are more by the book than we're used to.”

“Not all of them. Is Ellen inside?” Dean brushed past his fretting brother and waltzed inside. Harvelle's was a big, rambling Victorian-style house that had evidently been built by some railroad tycoon for his mistress back around the turn of the century. The current proprietor had turned it into a B&B. Ellen was walking downstairs, having just gotten everybody situated in their rooms. “So, did you need me to come help cook?” Dean asked her.

Ellen frowned. “Well, I'd appreciate it, dear, since Jo really doesn't have the time, what with looking after Gramma. I'm going to town for some groceries before dinner. Think you could whip up some dessert while I'm out?”

Dean rubbed his stomach. “I think this calls for my famous Huckleberry pie.”

“Knock yourself out, kiddo.” And then Ellen was out the door. Going into town was the code for traveling to the real grocery store, over on the other side of the state line. She would be gone at least a couple hours, that is, if she didn't think of more errands to do. Sand Point had a real live shopping mall now.

Dean contented himself for a time, puttering around Ellen's kitchen. If he thought he was going to run into any blue-eyed guests while he was there, though, he was dead wrong, as the large house’s first floor was silent. He finally turned on the radio for company, though he was careful to keep the volume low.

He was weaving the top pie crust when the phone rang. He wiped the flour on his hands and picked up the line in the kitchen. “Harvelle's.”

“You're not my mom.”

“No, Jo, I'm definitely not your mom.”

Jo was silent for a moment. “What the hell are you doing there?”

“Baking a pie. Can't you smell it?” Dean pointed the receiver over at the oven.

“I'm stuck minding Gramma Harvelle.” Even over the phone, Dean could imagine Jo sulking.

“You could put her on a leash and bring her over.”

“Not funny, Dean.”

“She would've liked the joke!”

“Yeah, I guess that's true.”

“Seriously, come on over. You guys can test the pie.”

“All right. All right.”

But Jo still hadn't arrived by the time Dean had finished the lattice on the crust and stuck the pie into the oven. He sat on the floor and watched it bake through the clouded oven door window for a while, and then perked up when he heard the back door open and close.

Wiping his hands with a towel, he peered out on the back porch, and saw an angel was now sitting out there reading a book. He’d removed the long coat and suit jacket, and loosened the rumpled tie. 

Telling himself that his only motivation was to make polite conversation with one of Ellen’s guests, Dean ventured out onto the porch.

“Hey. Uh, Castiel?”

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean sat down on the porch railing. “Oh, you know my name?”

Cas’s head listed to the side. “Your brother introduced you.” He put a finger in his book to mark his place, but didn’t seem annoyed at the interruption.

“Oh. Hey. That's right. Uhhh.” Dean strained to come up with a reason for his visit, other than he was having interesting thoughts about what to do with that errant blue tie. “You need anything? Coffee? Tea?”

“I’m all right, thank you.”

A black cat came and brushed up against Dean's leg. He leaned over and carefully gave it a scratch, and was rewarded with a purr that sounded a little too big for the small cat.

She leapt onto Castiel's lap and stretched. “We haven't been introduced,” said Dean of the cat.

“Hatshepsut.”

Dean did a double take. “That's a mouthful.”

“She was a pharaoh. She doesn't always … take to people.”

Dean squinted at the cat. Castiel's wording struck him as odd – not that she was named after a pharaoh, but that she _was_ a pharaoh? “Is she coming on the hunt?”

“Of course. Hunts are Hatshepsut's specialty.”

“We're gonna bring dogs, you know. Will she be OK?”

“You'll find she can take care of herself.” 

Dean waited for more of an explanation, but it wasn’t forthcoming. Evidently the guy wasn’t chatty. But he also didn’t go back to his book.

Castiel looked around. His nose wrinkled. “Do you have something in the oven?”

Dean grinned. “That's my huckleberry pie.”

“Your huckleberry pie?”

Dean puffed up his chest. “I bake and I hunt. I'm a man for all seasons.”

“I don't think I've ever tasted huckleberry pie before.”

“Well, you gotta try mine, Cas. You know the secret?” Dean leaned forward.

Cas leaned forward as well. “No.”

“Blueberries!”

Cas raised his eyebrows to this revelation. Dean heard the oven bell go off, so he hastened back inside. The pie, to his delight, looked and smelled perfect, the crust light and golden. He couldn't wait to share a piece. His mind began to drift, just a little. He was tearing off a small bite, blowing on it, and popping it in the mouth of a certain angel, whose blue eyes would open even wider at the mesmerizing smell.

Jo barged in, shepherding her protesting grandmother inside. “I need to go wait for my package, Ellen!” Gramma Harvelle told her. 

“Grammy, I'm Jo, not Ellen,” Jo sighed, dumping her car keys onto a table near the entryway. “Well, it smells good here anyway.” She leaned over Dean's pie and helped herself to a great whiff of the aroma. “Damn!” And then she gazed out the window towards the back porch, and the angel currently lolling there, petting a black cat. Suddenly, her eyebrows arched up. “Double damn!” 

She turned towards Dean. “Hey! Is that why you decided to hang around today?”

“What? Me?” asked Dean. “No!”

“What – you – yes!” said Jo, jabbing Dean in the ribs. “I'm so on to you, Dean Winchester.”

“I just wanted to help out for your mom!”

Both Jo and Dean froze at the sound of a car starting up. Jo whirled around: Gramma Harvelle was no longer there. And neither were her car keys.

“Dammit!” said Dean as they both dashed for the door.

“Grammy no!” shouted Jo. Gramma Harvelle wasn't paying attention. She was looking over her shoulder, and was trying to back the car. 

But there was an angel standing directly in her path.

She popped the door open and leaned out to yell. “I need to pick up my package, you damn fool!”

Jo seized the opportunity and leaned in, turning off the car and grabbing away the keys.

Gramma Harvelle, now 99 pounds of pure fury, leapt out of the car with surprising swiftness to confront Castiel. He stared serenely at her. “I need my package you angel bastard!”

Castiel leaned over, and gently placed two fingers on her forehead. “Murray Harvelle is safe. He is loved. Do not worry about him.”

Gramma Harvelle gasped and stepped back. She looked around. The black cat came and rubbed against her legs.

“You … you OK, Grammy?” asked Jo.

“Ellen?” She still seemed disoriented, but was no longer so frantic.

“It's Jo, Gramma.”

“Jo.” The old woman searched Jo’s eyes. “Was there a pie cooking inside?”

“It should be about cooled now,” said Dean.

“Let's go inside, Grammy,” said Jo. They went inside, Hatshepsut scurrying along behind.

“What did you do, Cas?” asked Dean.

Cas loosened his twisted necktie. “I tried to help. Somewhat. It's difficult to explain. Sometimes, when one person dies, if the connection is quite strong, they can take part of another soul with them.”

“Grampa Harvelle.”

Cas nodded. And then he exhaled and suddenly leaned back against Jo's car.

“Hey, steady,” said Dean, stepping forward and grabbing his arm. 

“Sometimes … that kind of thing … takes it out of me. I'm all right,” he assured Dean.

“Hey, let's get you something to eat. There's huckleberry pie inside, fresh out of the oven.” As Cas wasn't resisting, Dean took the opportunity and slid an arm around his back, holding him by the side.

“I don't think I've tasted huckleberries before.”

“That’s what you said.” Cas's face was quite close now. His eyelashes were long and dark. He smelled really nice, like the seashore. “Come on, buddy. Let's get you inside.” Dean gently pressed on Cas's chest, telling himself he was just helping to keep the angel steady on his feet. And then he walked him inside. Jo glanced at them and gave a theatrical roll of her eyes, but Dean only grinned. 

 

Toby's was the most popular bar in town.

It was also, coincidentally, the _only_ bar in town.

After consuming a goodly portion of the pie, Dean had ended up hanging around for dinner at Harvelle's, where he'd gotten a better sense of the angels and how they interacted. Michael and Raphael didn't exactly bicker, but they were constantly on the edge of bickering, which seemed to only make things worse. The tall guy, Gadreel, barely spoke. He seemed melancholy somehow. According to Cas, he had some experience hunting. 

When dinner was over, Michael had taken out his cell phone to do business, and Raphael had gone to sort through the great amount of camera equipment he had brought along. After the dishes were washed and stacked up on Ellen’s tidy shelves, Dean had wandered out to find Cas and Gadreel on the porch engaged in quiet conversation. He had talked them into coming out to Toby's with him. “This Toby’s is an establishment to drink and make merry?” Gadreel had asked. Yes, he actually talked that way, which Dean thought was kind of awesome. 

Dean had been surprised to find none other than Rufus Turner inside the smoky joint, and to make things weirder, the old cheapskate was buying rounds of drinks for everybody. By the time they arrived, Rufus was at least three sheets to the wind – and maybe four or five.

“What the fuck, Rufus?” Dean asked, after introductions had been made. “Hope you're not plannin' to fly back in that condition, because Ash will have your ass.”

Rufus bumped into Dean as he slid clumsily into their booth, waving a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label. “I'm out of the flying business, boys. As of tonight!”

“What the hell?”

“Some dumb asshole flew all the way up to Twin Falls – in a fuckin' _Sikorsky helicopter_ – an' asked me what it would take to buy out my fleet. My fleet! Well, I told him, an' I told him where to go, and what did he do?”

“What did he do?” Castiel prompted. Both he and Gadreel had perked up at the mention of the helicopter.

“He fuckin' pulled the money outta his jacket! Cash money! Dumb son of a bitch.”

Castiel and Gadreel exchanged a look. “Gabriel,” said Castiel.

“Gabe!” said Rufus. “That's the asshole's name.”

“Gabriel is our brother angel.”

A waitress came over and distributed empty shot glasses, and Rufus poured drinks for everybody from his bottle of Johnny Walker. “Well, I tell you a secret: your brother is one dumb son of a bitch,” said Rufus.

Dean cringed. Cas and Gadreel looked at each other again. “Yes, we are well aware of that,” Cas said, and Gadreel actually almost smiled.

Dean heard the door open and close. Abruptly the mood darkened, and the angels were staring over Dean's shoulder, towards whoever had just walked in. Curious, he turned around. There were three men standing in the entryway, peering into the darkened bar. All three were dressed in dark suits, similar to the ones Michael and the angels wore.

One, a barrel-chested, dark-skinned man, nodded to the other two. While they remained stationed at the doorway, he made a bee-line over to the booth where Dean and the angels sat, his eyes focused on Rufus.

Gadreel started to rise, but Cas put a hand on his wrist and muttered, “Be still, brother.” 

“Castiel. Gadreel,” said the newcomer, his tone dripping annoyance.

“Uriel,” said Cas, and Dean realized, if he hadn’t before, that the newcomers were angels.

“It's good to find you well,” said Uriel, although he didn't sound as if he meant it for a minute. 

“Why do you show your face in this place, brother?” asked Gadreel, in a voice that was more a growl.

“I am simply seeking a hunting outfitter,” said Uriel, with a smile that didn't come close to reaching his eyes. He turned to Rufus. “Specifically, the owner of the bush planes that are currently at the local landing strip: the de Havilland Beaver and Cessna 185. I was led to believe he is present. Am I speaking to Rufus Turner?”

“Yeah, that's me!” Rufus slurred. “But you're about an hour too late, buddy.”

“What do you mean?”

“As I was just telling my friends here, I sold it all off, lock stock and barrel, to some dumb asshole. _That_ dumb asshole, in fact!” Rufus rose unsteadily to his feet, and stumbled over to embrace Gabriel, who had just entered the bar, and was casting rather sour looks at the suits stationed by the doorway.

“Hey, Rufus. My old buddy from ten minutes ago,” said Gabe, who, with some assistance from Castiel, shuffled Rufus back into the booth. “Uriel,” he said, turning to face the newcomer. “How absolutely _rotten_ to see your putrid face.”

“The sentiment is mutual, I assure you,” grumbled Uriel. 

“Has our brother Lucifer now gained an interest in hunting?” Castiel demanded. He had not sat back down, but instead stood in front of the booth. He held up an arm to block Gadreel from standing up. 

“Would you deny a simple leisure time activity to a brother angel?” asked Uriel.

“Yes,” grumbled Gadreel.

“Whatever price this gentleman has offered you, we will double it, Mr. Turner,” Uriel told Rufus.

Rufus grinned. “Deal's done. I'm out. Imma spend my golden years gettin' hammered with my best friend, Johnny.”

“We can-”

“No more hunting!” said Rufus, who offered himself a sloppy toast. Dean yanked him back by the collar to keep him from tumbling head-first out of the booth.

“You heard him,” said Gabriel. His voice had gotten quieter. Everybody seemed to tense up, and Dean wondered whether his town, which to his knowledge had never seen hide nor hair of an angel before, was now going to be the location of some kind of celestial dustup.

Gabriel, who was by far smallest in stature of all the angels, had moved right in front of Uriel. Dean couldn't exactly put his finger on it, but with the swaggering pretense gone, the guy suddenly looked dangerous. There was a long moment where everyone held their breath.

“This isn’t over,” said Uriel, who immediately turned on his heel and, moving faster than Dean would have predicted, marched out, accompanied by his goons.

“Loser,” muttered Gabriel. 

“Your brother,” Rufus drunkenly confessed to Gadreel, who was sitting across from him, looking quite sour. “He can fly like one mean motherfucker.”

“Thanks, Gramps,” said Gabriel. “Hey, I was just talking to Mikey. We might need you to fly one more run for me.”

“He refuses pare down the equipment?” asked Gadreel.

“No, and he and Raph seemed real insistent on it.”

“No can do, Gabe,” said Rufus. “You know you’re my new bestie and all, but I don’t own a plane any more.”

“I just wanted to hire you for a couple days,” said Gabe.

“I only fly my own equipment.”

Gabe rolled his eyes. “OK. What if I leased it back to you, for a dollar a day?” 

“Then I might be of a mind to,” Rufus admitted. And then he pitched forward, face-first into the table. Everyone remained silent for a moment, until Rufus began to snore rather loudly.

“Should probably find him some place to crash tonight,” laughed Dean. 

Gabriel nodded to Cas, who, along with Gadreel, grabbed Rufus and began to help him shuffle towards the door. “We’ll put him up with us at Harvelles,” said Gabe. 

“You sure he’ll be in shape to fly tomorrow?” asked Dean.

“He will be when we zap his hangover.”

“You guys can cure hangovers, too?”

Gabriel directed his gaze at Dean. “What do you mean?”

“Cas gave the zap treatment to Gramma Harvelle earlier.”

Gabriel shrugged and slid into the booth opposite Dean. “We can use magic. When we want to.”

“So you gonna tell me what all that business with Uriel was about?”

Gabriel rubbed his short, reddish beard, mulling it over for a while. He picked up Cas’s shot glass, sniffed at it, and then filled it from the bottle of Johnny Walker. “The short version is, our dad checked out a few years back. He didn’t give real clear instructions on what he wanted to happen with the family business. So Mike and Luci have been fighting over it ever since.”

“And you ended up working for Mike?”

Gabe downed a shot and poured himself another. “No. I ended up working for Luci! Cassie pulled me back. He appealed to my better nature. The little shit: I didn’t know I had a better nature. And there’s a lot of bad blood between Luci and Gadreel. Luci got Gads in a lot of trouble – a _lot_ of trouble – a while back. He was basically disowned from the family for a while. Cassie brought him back too.”

“Huh,” said Dean. Castiel was surprising.

“But before you get all dreamy-eyed over Cassie again,” Gabriel broke in, “tell me what's the deal with long-gone Daddy Winchester.”

Dean blanched. He supposed he owed it to Gabe, but Winchester family business was not something he usually shared with outsiders. “My dad has … issues.”

“Issues? What? I take it it's not the troubles in the Middle East.”

“He's a drinker.”

Dean was gazing into his whiskey, and Gabe was staring him down. “Lemme guess: and he takes off and goes to ground somewhere?” 

Dean nodded. “Something like that. 

“Well, as it happens, I'm good at a couple things. Flying is one. Finding people is another.”

“Look, I hate to say this, but the trip might be better off if we leave him. I know he arranged the hunt-”

“OK, something you gotta understand about Michael: my bro is all into the image. It's important for him to go back and tell everyone how he went dragon hunting with John Winchester.”

“It's wyverns,” said Dean, automatically launching into his spiel. “Not dragons. They're-”

Gabriel held up his hands. “I know. I know.”

“Just … don't let Sammy know you said dragons. It makes him kinda crazy.”

“Sammy's the one with too much hair and the backwards knot in his tie.”

“Hey, he's too tall for me to tie it over his shoulder any more. And don't let him call you Sammy.”

Gabe gave a half smile and held up his shot glass. “To family!” he said. “Can't live without them, can't murder them in cold blood.”

Dean winced and downed a shot.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, I know the show has featured dragons before, but I'm going to ignore that and make up my own rules for them. I figure I'm justified, since this is an AU, and after all they tend to ignore canon on the show anyway nowadays. But just in case you were wondering.

“All right, time for Wyvern 101.”

Sam stood, beaming, before the white board in the back room of Bobby's store. Dean, who was standing along the wall with Rufus, broke into a grin. The kid was definitely in his element here. Rufus, eyes red-circled and gripping his mug of coffee tightly, managed to nod. 

The angels – minus Gabriel – were arrayed on metal folding chairs, displaying varied degrees of interest. Michael’s face was pinched into a sardonic smile and his posture was loose, but Raphael had pulled out a smart phone in order to take notes. 

Cas, who sat straight-backed and intently focused, had at one point turned around briefly and caught Dean's eye. Dean smiled, and could have sworn that Cas smiled back slightly, and his heart had melted just a little. But then he glanced over at Rufus, who was glaring over his coffee, shaking his head and muttering, “Dumbass.”

“What can you gentlemen tell me about wyverns?” Sam prompted.

“They're not dragons!” Michael volunteered, looking around and smiling with a bright row of straight white teeth. His cheekbones could have been chiseled from stone.

“Yes, very good. They aren't the same as European dragons, and more importantly, they aren't Chinese dragons.” Sam scrawled out the words, “Wyvern,” “dragon” and “Chinese dragon” on the board. “OK, what else?”

“Two legs, not four,” said Michael.

“Correct.”

There was a short pause. “They're not native,” Raphael ventured. 

“Is that so?” asked Sam, who was still smiling.

Raphael, obviously hedging now, puffed himself up. “Well, from what I've read on the subject, they were brought over by conquistadors, for hunting?”

“That's incorrect!” said Sam, raising his marker in glory. “We have fossils. I've actually seen them, and they have a pretty good collection now at the university. At one point, it seems they were pretty widely distributed across North America.”

“But they were hunted by the native populations,” said Cas. “As were their prey species.”

“Correct!” said Sam. “After humans moved in, and began to compete for local game, the population slowly shrank, and became limited to pockets in more remote areas, such as this region. Now,” he added, pointing to the words on the board, “can you tell me how they are related to dragons?”

“Aren't they a cross?” asked Michael. “Dragon and Chinese dragon interbreeding?”

“That's incorrect!” said Sam, who was clearly glorying in this encounter. _My brother the college professor_ , Dean thought, slipping on a proud big brother smile. Michael expression on the other hand had morphed from smug to irked, which was also kind of awesome. 

“It's a decent hypothesis,” Sam continued, “and many scientists once believed this to be true. But we know from very recent genetic testing that they're actually a result of parallel evolution!” Low down on the board he wrote, “Common ancestor.” He circled it, and then marked three lines, one going to each species of dragon. “One common ancestor, but three species on three continents – Europe, Asia and North America – all evolved common traits.” 

“This is all _very_ interesting, Sam,” sighed Michael, who didn't actually sound the least bit interested, “but I should ask about hunting them, which is after all what we're here for.”

Sam gleefully pointed to Michael with his magic marker. “I was just about to get into that! Now, who here has hunted dragons before?” Michael enthusiastically stuck his hand up, as did Cas and Gadreel. Raphael formed his features into a moue. “How about Chinese dragons?” Cas kept his hand up, as did Gadreel. Bobby, who had just poked his head in the door along with a dog or two, also proudly raised his hand. 

“That's next,” said Michael confidently, and Raphael’s sour expression curdled.

“What's the biggest difference?” asked Sam.

Cas and Gadreel glanced at one another. “The tail,” Cas said.

“Yep. The wyvern's got a poison gland in the tail.” Sam leaned over and grabbed something out of a battered cardboard box. Suddenly, all of the angels were leaning forward, attentive. “This is the tip of a tail from a young male wyvern. See, this is where the poison gland was removed.” The shield-like item he was holding was about the size of a dinner plate. It was covered in iridescent blue scales, with a long, cruel spike stabbing through the middle. 

“It's a hallucinogen, right?” asked Raphael.

“Yes, that's right. A very large dose could theoretically kill you, but the Wyvern prefers its food to be alive.”

“Yuck,” Rufus helpfully volunteered. 

“Drink your damn coffee, Rufus,” Bobby ordered. 

“Generally, the mode of attack is to stun the prey, and then they'll drag it back to the burrow,” Sam was explaining. “But this stuff is potent enough, you don't have go get a full dose to have some effects, at least with humans. I’m not as sure about angel physiology. But that’s why it’s in demand. It still hasn’t been synthesized, though many pharmaceutical companies are obviously trying.”

“Have you ever felt the influence of wyvern poison, Sam?” Cas asked.

“ _I_ have,” said Bobby. Suddenly, all attention was pointed towards the doorway. “Got stung guiding a hunt a few years back. Wasn't bad, just a scratch, but it was enough. Got to talk to my wife. She’s been dead twenty years now. Anyway, that’s about when I decided to hang it up for good.”

There was a long pause, which was broken when Gabe came bustling through the doorway, gripping the arm of another man. “Hey, look who I just ran into!” said Gabe, smiling wide. 

John Winchester didn’t appear quite so pleased, but Dean was relieved to see he seemed to be sober, though he avoided meeting his son’s eyes.

“It’s good to meet you, Mr. Winchester. I’ve heard so much about you.” Michael was already on his feet, a cool hand extended in greeting.

“These are my brothers,” said Gabe. “Michael, Raphael, Castiel, Gadreel.”

John cracked a smile. “This-iel, that-iel. I may have you boys wear name tags for a while.” He chuckled, and Michael chuckled as well. 

“You wanna help get loaded up?” Gabriel asked Rufus. “We’ve got luggage and equipment and dogs to get on board.”

Rufus dumped the remainder of his coffee into Bobby's sink and followed Gabriel out. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” he grumbled.

“I’ll muster the hounds,” Bobby told them, and the three men exited. 

Dean saw that his father was now conversing with Michael, interrupting Sam's lesson. After a moment’s hesitation, he slipped out of the room, quietly closing the door behind him. “Hey, Rufus-“ he started, but Gabriel, Rufus and Bobby had already departed. “Damn!”

“What’s the matter, Dean?” Dean flinched and turned around. Cas had evidently followed him out of the back room.

Dean bit his lip. This probably wasn’t a great thing to admit to a client, but there was something about Cas’s steady gaze that made him drop his defenses, if only for a moment. “This is gonna sound stupid, but I’m not a real big fan of flying. Rufus knows that, so I usually just go with him, since he’s used to me … you know. Freaking.” 

Dean felt a hand on his shoulder. Cas’s gaze had only become more intense. “You will fly with me, Dean. I promise, I will not let any harm befall you.”

“Befalling is what I’m worried about,” Dean admitted with a wry smile. “But hey, thanks, Cas. And anyway, I’m supposed to be your guide here, so I’m gonna be looking out for _you_.”

“I am an angel, Dean. First and last.”

The door to the back room was thrown open. “For the last time, you’re not taking the rolling suitcase, Raphael, and that’s final,” Michael was saying. John and the angels had just emerged along with John.

“I don’t want anything to get wrinkled,” Raphael complained.

“The dragons won’t give a shit,” Michael told him.

John glared at Dean. “Dean, are you out here lollygagging again? We need to make final preparations.”

Dean wanted to ask his father where he’d been for the past 24 hours, but held his tongue, as the clients were watching. Michael inclined his head, and the angels swiftly followed him out the door, accompanied by John. “Don’t worry, we should have a backpack you can use, son,” he told Raphael as the front door slammed shut behind them.

While Dean stood, fuming, Sam emerged from the back room, rolling his eyes and capping his marker pen. “Let me guess-“ Dean started.

“Dad was on my ass about putting off law school again,” Sam told him. “Giving me a guilt trip in front of the clients about how he’s getting too old for this. And I couldn’t tell him off, since the guys were in there. I’m already a year behind everyone else, Dean!”

“He didn’t know Rufus would suddenly be out of the business like that,” Dean, though it felt lame. “I think it caught him by surprise. I mean, with Bobby gone, and Ellen running her boarding house, he's the last of the old guard.”

“I don’t see how that’s my problem!”

“No, no. You’re right Sammy. Especially with the angel business, we’ll be fine next year with just Dad and me.”

Looking only partly mollified, Sam pulled out a cell phone and started madly thumbing it. Texting the girlfriend, no doubt. It kept him sane. Dean wondered how Sam was going to survive this week off in the wilderness with Dad, away from his 3G connection.

 

Cas was good as his word. He was sitting beside Dean as they flew in the Cessna to the base camp.

Rufus was not the pilot. He was up ahead in the de Havilland with the rest of the party, while Dean and Cas rode with Gabriel and several of Bobby's hunting dogs, one of whom had somehow been let out of his crate and thus commandeered the co-pilot’s seat. Cas’s cat sat contentedly on his shoulders. It was all a little weird, though it had so far completely distracted Dean from dwelling on the fact that he was hanging up in the air in a small tin can with a madman at the wheel.

“Your cat goes on hunts?” Dean had asked at one point. Obviously, it did, as it was going along now, but he craved more information.

“Stupid cat,” opined Gabriel, who gave his slobbering canine co-pilot a pat on the head. 

“Such felines were bred to keep watch over the dead, and to guard the entryway between this world and then next,” Cas informed him. Hatshepsut purred. “They are sensitive to the paranormal in ways we are not.”

“Angels don't know everything, in other words.”

Gabriel glanced back and Cas, grinning. Cas's face edged into a smile. “No, 'fraid not,” said Gabriel.

“And you don't fly? I mean, you don't have wings?”

“No, we had to give that up, a long time back. But, this ain't bad!” Gabe let the plane slightly slalom, and Dean stiffened. 

“Uh. So, Michael is a hunter?” Dean finally stammered. 

“Trophy hunter,” Gabe explained. “He's gotten really into it lately. Show him, Cassie.”

Castiel took a cell phone out of his pocket and began to thumb through it. “Oh, uh, in case you didn't know, you won't be able to use these out there-” Dean began, but stopped when Castiel handed over the phone. Dean sat for a while and stared at the image on the display. “Um. Yeah. That's … a painting?”

Gabriel snorted with laughter, and even Cas smiled widely. Dean squinted at the phone and thumbed through the next few images. They showed a beaming Michael in front of what appeared to be an oil painting depicting him hunting a European dragon. Or fighting it, rather. He was portrayed slashing at it with some kind of sword. 

“How did … how did the sword not melt? What kind of outfitters did you guys have on that hunt?” This caused Gabe to laugh so long and so loud that the small plane started to dive and Dean turned paper white. 

“Gabe!” Cas cautioned. Gabe continued to giggle, but got a handle on the plane. Cas continued. “Michael did not slay the dragon … that is, that portrait is somewhat … _romanticized_.”

“Anyway, Mikey didn't kill it,” said Gabe. “Gadreel did.”

Dean looked back and forth between the brother angels. “Well, good. It looked like a really dumb way to kill a dragon.” He mulled it over a bit. “Hey, did you guys bring...?”

“I have my blade,” Cas told him. “My people have … our ways. But we will look to your guidance on the subject.”

As he handed the phone back to Cas, Dean thought it over. He wondered if his father knew they were guiding a bunch of crazy ass angels who wanted to kill a dragon with their fucking swords. It seemed a little insane, even for John. 

Gabe had started chatting over the radio. Dean hadn't donned his headphones, so he didn't hear the other half of the conversation. He knew they were probably getting near the camp. Gabe pointed out the window. “There, Cassie. What do you think?”

Cas leaned forward, causing Hatshepsut to slide into his lap and stare as well. The dog in the co-pilot's seat nosed her, and she deftly batted at its snout with a paw.

“Think I can do it?” Gabe asked Cas.

“I don't know, Gabriel. It's a little short.”

Curious, Dean leaned forward as well. Gabe was pointing to a short sand bar. He saw that Rufus had already landed the Cessna on the beach nearby, where they generally landed the bush planes. 

“Wanna bet?” Gabe asked Cas.

“All right. Our usual?”

“Wait, that's where you're landing?” asked Dean. “It's too short!”

“We'll soon see about that. Strap yourself in, Dean-o!” sang Gabriel, as he brought the plane around.

The color had drained from Dean's face. “He's not landing there. Is he landing there? Cas, is he landing there?”

Cas was quietly tightening his seat belt, and then leaned over to do the same for Dean. 

“Gabe, I've been riding in these planes before, you can't land on that little sandbar! It's too short. You need to wait for Rufus to taxi off the beach and make room for you.”

“Tray tables in the upright and locked position!” yelled Gabriel. “Geronimo!”

Dean braced for the crash that he knew would certainly end his life. He squeezed his eyes shut, and tried to pray but then remembered that he didn't believe in praying and thus could not call a single invocation to mind.

He felt a pressure on his hand, and peeked down. As the plane dove, Cas calmly stroked the cat in his lap, and Dean realized that at some point, the blue-eyed angel had evidently quietly reached out to grasp Dean's hand in his. Dean stared. Holding his hand, the way you would a frightened child. 

The landing gear rumbled as it came in contact with the gravel, and Dean could hear the crunch of tires on rocks and pebbles somewhere outside. It seemed far away. And then they were no longer moving. Abruptly, Cas dropped Dean's hand and reached into his jacket.

“Well? Well?” Gabe demanded.

Cas extracted a very crumpled one dollar bill from his pocket and passed it along to Gabe. “There you go.”

Dean looked between them. “You bet him a dollar? A _dollar_?”

“My brother is quite confident in his abilities,” said Cas.

“Let me out of here!” said Dean. Gabe opened up his door, and the hunting dog gracefully leapt over him and out of the cockpit.

“Hey, did Waylon get out of his crate?” yelled Sam from outside. He had already extracted himself from Rufus's plane and had come over to deal with the hounds. 

“That was A plus flying!” came Rufus's voice. Gabriel leapt out to have a nerdy pilot conversation with Rufus.

Dean glanced over at Cas to make a crack about the mental health of pilots, but was disappointed to see Cas slip out as well, with no comment at all about the whole hand-holding deal. Maybe it was for the best, Dean reflected.

“If you're just gonna sit on your ass, then help me get the dog crates out,” Sam was saying. Dean looked up to see his hulking brother blocking the doorway. 

“You deal with your doggies, I need some air,” said Dean, snapping his seatbelt and pushing past Sam. He stood on the sand bar for a moment, just breathing in and out. Sam was right, he did need to get his ass in gear and help with unloading equipment. 

There was a group of fishermen, dressed in hip waders and casting gossamer thin lines, just upstream from where they had landed. John had wandered over to shoot the breeze with them. Dean found Raphael standing just outside the Cessna. He was wearing khaki and not a suit and tie, but he still looked more than a little out of place.

“They're fishing here?”

Dean watched his father chatting with the fishermen. “Yeah, it's time for the salmon run. You get king salmon here – real big ones. We're gonna be hunting a ways upstream, so we shouldn't interfere with each other.”

Raphael appeared dubious. “Don't wyverns eat salmon too?”

“Oh yeah, it's their favorite food.”

“But they don't come down here?”

“Oh, hell yeah. They definitely come down this way.”

Raphael was suddenly watching the sky. “But, it's just regular salmon, right? Nothing magical about it. Why do they need to come here? I mean, it must be dangerous!”

“Dude, they're fishermen. They're nuts!” Dean grinned made a circle at his temple. Raph just shook his head. 

John finished his conversation and strode over to announce that though the fishermen hadn't encountered any wyverns on this trip, there had been dragon sign spotted in the immediate vicinity: tracks, spoor, and charred bones of some prey. 

Sam went up to the cabin's storage shed and returned with some luggage trolleys, so they finished unloading baggage, and bade goodbye to Rufus and Gabe. Gabriel huddled with Castiel for a last word before he departed, and then blew a theatrical kiss at Dean just before he shut the door to the Cessna. Dean stayed until the last minute, watching in fascination as Gabriel successfully took off from the tiny sand bar. He looked around and noticed that Waylon the hunting dog was his only companion still down by the beach. “Let's get the rest of this crap up to the cabin, what do you say?” The dog grinned a doggy grin and leapt cheerfully up on the trolley, tail wagging furiously. Dean, who really should have shooed him back off, instead rolled his eyes and pushed hound and baggage up to the Winchester cabin.

John and Sam had opened up the cabin, and it looked like people had been claiming bedrooms. The cabin was rustic, but decently equipped. It had a big kitchen area, which pleased Dean, and a living room with some old, comfy couches set around a wood burning stove. Dean and Sammy had rigged up some solar panels the last summer, so the place now had a steady supply of electricity. 

Sam and Raphael had commandeered the bedroom just off the living room area, as it had the greatest number of electrical outlets, and they were now charging up laptops and all sorts of fancy camera equipment. The two, who were both only halfway unpacked, were sitting on a bunk paying rapt attention some kind of camera lens Raph had brought along. It looked like Michael and Gadreel intended to take the bedroom down the hall, and John had immediately grabbed the only room with a double bed for himself. 

Dean rolled his eyes and began to climb the ladder to the attic bedroom. It could get chilly up there, but on the other hand, the dogs couldn't get up the ladder, so you didn't have unwanted visitors nosing your face at 5 am. (In theory the hounds were supposed to sleep outside in their house, but this never actually happened if either Bobby or Sam was present.)

Dean reached the top of the ladder and found himself face to face with a black cat. “Uh, hello?”

“This bunk was free. I hope you don't mind?”

It was only through enormous restraint that Dean managed to mutter, “Naw, no big deal,” instead of what he almost said, “Oh, hell no!” He did find himself calculating whether the beds were too heavy to push together. That is, if he felt a chill. Which he now felt he most certainly would. He dumped his bag on the empty bunk, and then noticed Cas was sitting on his own bed, polishing something....

“Dude! Is that a sword?”

“Yes. It's my angel blade.” 

Dean felt himself dropping down to sit on the bunk next to Cas, who handed over the blade. Dean took it up with trembling hands. It was gorgeous: short and sharp, and fashioned of a metal with which Dean was not familiar. “You brought this hunting?” he managed to say.

“Yes. My people have certain rituals that come to play in slaying a wyvern. It's … it's not like the painting, though.”

“This looks sharp,” said Dean, running a finger down the edge, a decision he immediately regretted, as he saw the drop of blood coming from his sliced finger. “Oh. Sorry!” Blushing and sucking on his injured finger, he handed back the blade. Cas smiled and placed it beside him, and then caught Dean's hand in his, which only caused Dean's cheeks to flush further. He felt a burning in his finger, and Cas let go. 

Dean stared at his finger, which had been completely healed. “Oh, you used your mojo on my hand. Hey, you shouldn't have wasted it like that! I could have grabbed a band aid!'

“It's no problem.” Cas smiled. “A small cut is much less complicated for me than the issues Mrs. Harvelle was having.”

Dean realized something. “So, Cas, when you grabbed my hand, back in the plane, were you...?”

Cas tilted his head in puzzlement. “Oh, no! That wasn't meant to heal. That was....” He dipped his head, and Dean swore his cheeks flushed. “That was meant to be a small comfort. I hope you didn't take offense.”

Cas looked up again, dark lashes fluttering over those incredible eyes. Dean thought he could quite possibly drown in them. Cas licked his lips, and Dean found himself mesmerized by the slight flick of a tongue.

“Dinner!” The ladder rattled, and both Dean and Cas flinched. Sam's head popped up through the hatch. “Dad says we need to get dinner started. Better get down here, Kitchen Boy. Oh, hey, cool sword!” 

 

Dean probably ate too much, but he was his own favorite cook, next to Ellen Harvelle. He'd brought along some ground beef, as burgers were quick and satisfying. And since Cas seemed to like nosing around the kitchen, and pointy objects, Dean put him to work slicing up condiments. Tonight they had some of Ellen's potato salad along: Dean really needed to ask her what she used to give it a little zing. Also some of Dean's brownies for dessert: he'd had to hide them away from Sammy so he wouldn't steal them all. Cas seemed to like them, which thoroughly pleased Dean.

After dinner Cas and Gadreel cleaned up, which Dean didn't object to one bit. Sam and Raphael went outside with Raph's fancy camera to take star photos, because they were both big old nerds. 

John retreated to his room along with Michael. He spread out the map on the cramped table in there and began to have some kind of serious discussion. They called for Gadreel, who entered, shutting the door behind him. Dean was curious about why he was being excluded, but knew his father had his moods, so he didn't dwell on it too much. He stirred up a bunch of mix for the scones tomorrow, and then wandered out and watched Sam and Raph try to out-geek each other for a while, as they all gazed up in wonder at the bright Milky Way. The stars were incredible out here, away from city lights. He made sure the hounds had food and water, and then retreated to his room where, purely by coincidence, he popped his head up above the hatch just as Cas was changing his shirt.

“Hey,” he muttered, telling himself that Cas was a client, and it was probably best to keep things on a professional level, at least for the next few days. But then he saw the flash of Cas's back, and the long markings that traced down from his shoulder blades. They resembled long scars. “Hey, are you all right?”

Cas turned around, his head tilted, which meant he was puzzled. “Oh, my back?” he asked. Smiling agreeably, he turned his back towards Dean, and Dean stepped forward. There were two long marks that looked like scars carved down on either side of his backbone, from about shoulder blade to hip level. “Are you curious about my wing marks?” asked Cas.

“What?” asked Dean. He longed to trace his fingers down the scars, but stayed his hand. “Wings?”

Cas pulled his pajama shirt on. “It's said my people had wings. Long ago. We of the angelic race still bear their mark.”

Now it was Dean's turn to be puzzled. “Uh, I thought that was just a thing idiots said. About angels, I mean.”

“Oh, no. Look here.” Cas grabbed his phone from the end table and sat down on his bunk, thumbing through it. Dean quite pointedly sat down on his own bed, across from Cas. Cas flicked through several images, and then scooted forward, so his knees nearly touched Dean's. Dean looked down. There was a hole in the knee of Cas's pajama pants, where the fabric had frayed. He saw the phone passed over. “See, here?”

Dean picked up the phone. It displayed a picture of a tapestry, depicting a glorious dark-winged being flourishing a sword. “That's an angel?” he asked.

“That's actually my namesake. Castiel.” The current bearer of the name puffed up with obvious pride. 

“Did he slay dragons with that sword?”

“Oh, no. But our ancestor, Michael, was reputed to have done that.” Cas seized the phone back, his hands touching Dean's for a short, sweet moment, and then he was flipping through images again. 

“So, that's why Michael and the dragon hunting thing?” Dean asked.

Cas was bent over his phone, but glanced up momentarily. “Yes, I believe you might be right.”

“Wait, you hadn't thought of this before?”

Cas shrugged. “I don't think about such things. I've heard the wyvern is reputed to be an incredible creature.”

“Yeah, they are.”

“It will be a shame to end one's life, but I anticipate seeing them in the wild.”

Dean leaned closer. “You don't even wanna kill one? But you're going on a hunt?”

“I didn't say that.”

“Look, Raphael brought about a million dollars in camera equipment. Why not just have him snap a few action shots of Mike waving a sword at a wyvern and go home?”

Cas set down the phone and stared at Dean. “That's strange to hear, coming from a hunter.”

“Dude, we've taken photographers up here, tons of times! It was Sammy's idea, but it's a great one. Yeah, we hunt, but we hunt when there's bad guys threatening us: revenants and were-creatures that kinda stuff on the loose. Especially when they get near town. Wyverns – they're up here now, and they pretty much keep to themselves. There's really no need to hunt them.”

Cas's head was now canted to the side, his eyes wide. “You are a surprising individual, Dean.”

“Is that good or bad?” Dean asked, a bit too quickly.

“Good,” said Cas.

Dean looked down. There was a cat in his lap.

“That's rude, Hatshepsut,” said Cas, who leaned over and picked up the cat. She climbed up on his shoulders and stared at Dean. 

“It's late,” said Dean, hastily rising to his feet. “I should, uh, brush my teeth. Early start tomorrow.”

Cas petted his cat's tail. “Good night, Dean,” he said.

Dean took the ladder down, feeling somewhat relieved, but also somewhat cowardly. He puttered around the cabin for a while. Someone had left a coffee cup out on the coffee table: probably Mike or Gadreel. He stuck it in the sink. That's when he noticed the door to one of the cupboards under the sink was open. He checked around, but all the bedroom doors were closed now. 

He squatted down and carefully nudged the cupboard open. He counted the bottles. He counted again. Yes, one of the whiskey bottles was missing. 

He rose and looked down the hallway again. John's door was closed. Dean was well aware of his father's issues, but he hadn't expected him to go this far, especially given his absence when the angels had come into town. Sam and Raphael were still outside: he could hear there quiet conversation. He considered talking to his brother, but decided against it. They would need to chat about this, but the time wasn't now, especially with clients around. And it definitely wouldn't be the first secret Dean had kept from his brother. 

Righteously annoyed, he shut the liquor cabinet. He stood at the counter for a long moment. And then he bent down, opened the cabinet, and grabbed a whiskey bottle. He poured a shot into a glass, downed the shot, and then replaced everything and headed to bed. 

 

The day dawned with a chilly fog hanging in the air. “Good wyvern weather,” John insisted. Dean demurred, as he knew damn well there was no such thing. But as long as it burned off enough to watch the skies, they had a chance of a good hunt.

They all put away their share of breakfast, and then left the dishes to soak, and headed off, stomping boots and pulling their jackets tight against the early morning chill, waving companionably to the fishermen, who were of course already out, casting lines. The dogs were thrilled to be on the hunt. Sam let them go off leash, which probably would have bugged the hell out of Bobby, but he wasn't along. They bounded ahead and then romped back, snuffling at rocks and plants, weird glassy eyes taking everything in.

Cas's cat rode on his shoulders most of the way. It disappeared at one point, running off into the woods. Dean wondered if there was something supernatural in the offing, but Cas said nothing. And then, while they had stopped to eat lunch, it returned with a small rodent it had caught. 

It was early afternoon, not long after they'd started up again, that the hounds grew silent. Waylon was the first to run back to Sam, and the others followed. Their eyes, always that spooky glass color, had grown unfocused. They were using other senses now. 

Sam was crouching down now, the tall man staring the dog in the eye, signaling for silence from the party. Everyone held their breath. Dean loosened the top button of his shirt. They day had cleared, and he was finally warming up. 

“Show me,” Sam ordered. He beckoned for Dean, and, as quietly as they could, they picked their way on ahead. Dean knew this area fairly well. It was a bit west of where they generally went to hunt for wyvern, but it was late in the season, so he had deferred to his father. The path here wound around a hillside, and then opened up on a field. It wasn't unknown to see a herd of deer or elk or even some moose out in the field, but that wouldn't have upset the dogs like this. 

Waylon had stopped, just before a blind corner. His companions stood silently by.

Sam drew his weapon and edged around, peering at the field.

He broke into a wide smile and pointed his rifle towards the ground.

Dean frowned and shouldered past his brother. He took a look, and they grinned at one another. 

“You might wanna get your camera out, Raphael,” said Sam as they returned to the hunting party.

“Not a wyvern?” asked John.

“You'll see. Come on. But be quiet, we don't want to startle them.”

The party edged around the bend to view the field, Sam keeping the dogs firmly in hand. The unicorns grazed contentedly underneath the slanted afternoon sun. One raised a horned head to cast a curious eye at the hunters, but then, when it detected no threat, went back to chewing the tender meadow grass.

“That’s astonishing!” Gadreel whispered, his eyes wide with wonder. 

“You have your telephoto?” Sam asked Raphael.

But Raphael was not reaching for his camera. “Michael,” he whispered. “The horns.”

Michael huffed impatiently. “Raphael, we can’t be delayed. Besides, we don’t have the appropriate licenses.”

“Oh, you don’t actually need a license to take one during this season,” Dean informed them. “It’s just, hunting unicorns…. Well, not something I’d personally recommend.” He looked over at Sam for agreement. His brother nodded vigorously. Unicorns were awfully pretty to look at, but they were giant assholes, and appeared to love nothing better than taunting unwary hunters. Dean’s inclination, after many an unsuccessful and frustrating hunt that left you sore and covered in mud, was to leave them be. He would really rather go against a werecat than one of those things, and they had just happened upon an entire herd.

Raphael did not appear convinced. “But the magical power! Michael, we might not have another chance at this.”

“We came here for a dragon, Raphael.”

“We came here on a hunt, brother.”

This was beginning to look like a nightmare: now whatever they did, they would come off with at least one unhappy client. 

“We still have several hours of daylight left,” John told them. “I propose we split up for a short time. If Raphael would like to spend an hour or so going after a unicorn horn, the rest of us can scout up north.”

Dean nodded. That was a decent solution. At least it would keep everyone occupied. Now he listened closely for who was on unicorn duty.

“Sam,” said John. “You stay here and help Raphael, while I take Michael on ahead.”

Sam tried not to show it, but Dean could see his brother’s shoulders sag. Dean attempted not to look smug. He figured Sam would probably get him back by leaving mud tracked in all over the shower tonight. 

John was handing over a satellite phone. “Dean, stay here and keep in contact,” his father instructed him. John was heading off with Michael, and Gadreel stuck by them.

Dean hopped up to sit on a rock, grinning back at the dirty look he got from Sam. Cas came up beside him and dumped his pack on the rock. “Your father is taking the dogs?” he asked.

“Yeah. They're not much help in a unicorn chase. Frankly, nothing much is useful in a unicorn hunt.”

Cas only scowled.

“Uh, buddy,” Dean told him. He leaned forward, keeping his voice low. “Look, you might want to sit this one out.”

“Raphael is my brother. I will offer what assistance I can,” Cas told him.

“It can get dirty. Believe me, it’ll get really dirty, really quick.”

Castiel stared at him for a while, and then picked Hatshepsut off his shoulders and placed her beside Dean. The cat yowled indignantly, as if in protest. “Remain here,” he told her, as she glared at him. Cas walked off towards the others. 

“Hey, I tried to talk some sense into him,” Dean told the cat, who flicked her tail in irritation. 

Sam did as well as could be expected. Unicorns were invulnerable to just about any weapon – natural or unnatural – that you could name. The trick was to get a silver chain around their neck, and that usually brought them to heel. What most people ended up using was a clumsy rope inlaid with silver. And, as you could imagine, it was nearly impossible to slip it over the head of a horned beast, especially one that was a lot bigger and faster than you, and which appeared to have a malicious sense of humor to boot. 

After twenty minutes, and many amusing pratfalls, they had at least managed to separate one stallion from the herd, and were indeed fairly well-coated in mud. The unicorn, for its part, seemed to already be getting bored of the whole thing. Meanwhile, Dean had just talked to his father over the satellite phone, and John and his party hadn’t seen any wyvern sign along the trail they had taken. They were considering turning around: evidently, the dogs had begun to act oddly. Although he didn’t volunteer this to his father, Dean figured it was mostly John’s handling of the dogs. He’d never had a feel for them the way Sammy did. He wondered why John hadn’t taken Sam along while they were scouting. His father was acting odd, but his father always acted odd.

The hiss distracted him. Hatshepsut was standing next to him, her hackles raised. He looked up from the phone, scanning the field. Everything seemed in order. Sam was down at one end, picking himself up for the hundredth time. Raphael and Cas were at the other, and, oddly enough, Raphael was actually quite close to the stallion, waving the loop of silver rope. 

And then he saw the shadow.

“Sammy, watch out!” Dean screamed. He grabbed his gun and took off running.

Sam dove for cover, flattening himself back on the cold ground. Cas, startled by Dean's hollering, looked upwards just as the Wyvern began to dive, it’s dark blue scales glinting in the sun, its yellow-gold eyes focused on its prey.

Raphael, as if hypnotized, stood motionless, staring into the unicorn’s multicolored eyes, the silver rope twirling in his hand as if under its own power.

“Raphael! No!” yelled Cas. The dragon was gunning for the unicorn, but those things would gladly take a man given the chance. Raphael tossed the rope, his eyes mad with concentration. Dean kept running. 

The wyvern dove.

Cas closed the distance between himself and his brother, bringing Raphael down in a flying tackle. The unicorn started to gallop, vaulting over the two men huddled on the ground and making for the edge of the field, Raphael's silver rope still looped around its neck. 

The monster shrieked, turning in mid-air as the unicorn barely escaped its grasp, and pivoting with blinding speed towards where Cas and Raphael lay in a heap. It alit nearby, its pointed scorpion tail arced up to strike.

Dean halted, scared and out of breath, and hollered, “Hey!” He waved his arms up over his head, trying to make himself seem bigger – a threat. It worked: the reptilian head turned towards him, writhing on its snake-like neck. 

Wyverns were like unicorns in one way: just about nothing worked on them, at least not on those hardened scales. You need to hit it just right in a vulnerable spot. One place was the belly, but the thing was too low now. He had another chance though. “Hey!” he yelled again, waving the gun. “Hey!” But the beast charged, running now on preposterous chicken legs.

Something black streaked across the field and latched onto the Wyvern’s head. The dragon pulled back as Hatshepsut clawed at a glinting eye. Then the cat was gone, and the thing reared back and opened its mouth to shriek in pain.

…Which was when Dean somehow managed to get his gun up and give it both barrels, right in the mouth. Vulnerable spot number two.

There was blood and horrible screams, and then the eerie silent howl of the hunting hounds, as Waylon and his companions suddenly came barreling across the field. The dragon shrieked one last time, and then took flight, powerful wings beating as it fled.

A gun reported. Probably John’s, but it was too late, and out of range. 

Dean heard Raphael moan, and sprinted over. Sam was already there, caked in mud but all right, helping a shaky Raphael to his feet. Cas lay on the ground, blinking, evidently still in shock.

“Cas?” said Dean.

“Dean.” The angel's eyes blinked open, staring up. “Dean? Dean!” Cas snapped up to a sitting position, eyes staring blankly, arms grasping at nothing.

“I'm here,” Dean told him. He came up behind Cas and, wrapping his arms under Cas's armpits, dragged him to his feet. “I'm right here.”

“Dean! No!” Cas called, still fighting off something unseen.

“I'm right here. I'm right here, buddy.”

“What's the matter?” Raphael asked. “Castiel? Brother?”

“He must have gotten stung,” said Sam. “But I don't see a wound. Did it strike?”

“Probably caked in mud,” Dean muttered. The angel was still frantically calling his name, so Dean hugged tighter. 

While John ran to muster the dogs, Michael and Gadreel came striding across the meadow to where they stood. “What happened here?” Michael demanded.

“Cassie was poisoned,” Raphael told them.

“Dean! No!” Cas shouted, suddenly struggling vigorously against Dean.

“Hallucinations. He's seeing things that aren't there,” Sam explained. “It's usually best to just let it wear off. It's not enough to hurt him, but he'll have a headache tomorrow.”

“Gadreel,” Michael ordered, and suddenly the tall angel strode forward and lay two fingers across Cas's forehead. Castiel gasped, as if in pain, and then finally relaxed in Dean's arms.

“We're done for the day,” John announced. “We're heading back.”

Michael aimed an indignant glare at Dean, as the hunter was struggling to get Cas's arm over his shoulder while Sam supported him from the other side. But then Michael turned on his heel and followed John out of the field. 

“Come on, buddy,” Dean muttered to Cas, beginning the long walk back. There was a flash of black, and quite suddenly, Hatshepsut was up on Dean's shoulders, winding around like a fur scarf. “Oh, buddy, it's good to see you,” Dean told the cat. “We'll get him home, don't worry.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay folks - I was off at Comic Con this weekend. I ought to have the last chapter up some time this week, as I gotta get cracking on my DCBB.
> 
> Oh, and this chapter is semi-NSFW. But you don't mind, do you? :D

Dean sat at the cabin's kitchen table, sipping his coffee and relishing the silence. Hatshepsut had folded herself neatly into a patch of sun on the tabletop, and was catnapping. Dean had built this table himself. He liked working with his hands: it was calming. 

His nose twitched. Something in the cabin smelled funny. This was an all-too-familiar odor. Sighing, he ventured down the hallway. His dad’s door was slightly ajar, so he took it as an invitation. He peeked inside, and the dull scent of stale cigarette smoke hit him. And there on the nightstand was the evidence: an old plastic Hamm’s beer ashtray, with a couple of butts inside. John was back to his Marlboros again. He claimed he had quit, but it was an open secret he sneaked a few, now and then, when he didn’t think anybody was watching. Still, it wasn’t like him to smoke when they were around clients though – just one more weird circumstance on this increasingly weird job. 

Shaking his head, Dean grabbed the ashtray to dump the contents in the kitchen wastebasket. He was definitely going to have to talk this over with Sam later. John was not the most reliable person, but he usually pulled himself together to guide hunts. It wasn’t working out that way this time, and that was not good.

Dean shook the ashtray into the kitchen garbage, mulling over recent events. The Winchester family had started the day with an argument. Castiel was going to remain here today: there was no dispute about that. Cas in fact was still sleeping peacefully upstairs, unaware of any fuss that might have been going on.

The trouble began when John had insisted that Sam would stay to watch over Cas today, and Dean would come along on the hunt. It made no damned sense, as Sam was the one who managed the hounds. And it would be especially critical today, given that they had a dragon sighting. So Sam, being Sam, had immediately thrown in his very stern objection.

The same old same old, seeing Sam and Dad butt heads. It had begun when Sam was a young teen, and showed no sign of abating. But they usually managed to keep it in check in when there were clients around. Dean had put his foot down: siding with Sam, outvoting his father, and ending the fracas. 

John's hot fury had suddenly grown ice cold. He stared at Dean, and then looked away. And that was the last they spoke until John, still seething, led the party away. 

There was a kind of cold familiarity to it. When Sam fought John, they clashed. But when Dean tried to fight, it seemed, he disappeared. In his father’s eyes, he suddenly shrunk to nothing, to something less substantial than the ghosts John fought.

“Why didn't you wake me?”

Dean, still holding the plastic Hamm’s beer ashtray in his hands, blinked off his reverie and focused on Cas. The perpetually rumpled angel was even more disheveled than usual this morning, hair sticking every which way, badly in need of a razor, dark circles smudged beneath his eyes like bruises. Hatshepsut leapt onto his shoulders, nuzzled him for a while and, then evidently deciding all was well, leapt back off to find another patch of sun.

Dean began to babble. “Hey, Cas! Sit down. You hungry, buddy? You got stung yesterday. Do you remember? We were chasing a bunch of unicorns. But there was a wyvern. And you got a little crazy.”

Cas stood stock still, his eyes gone wide. “Dean! A wyvern attacked you!”

“No, dude, no.” Dean set down the ashtray and put a steadying hand on the angel's shoulder. “A hallucination. You were buzzed on dragon juice.”

“It seemed so real.” Cas's eyes searched Dean. “You're certain you are all right?”

“I'm good. I'm fine. You want some breakfast? You up to eating something? You missed my dinner last night. Ribs Enochian style. Good stuff!”

Cas brushed his hands over his T-shirt, as if searching for something. He had been collected enough last night to shower off most of the mud, though his hair still stuck together in places. “How was I poisoned? I wasn't stung.”

“Well, we couldn't find a sting mark,” Dean admitted. “Maybe it was real small?”

“I would have known!” the angel stubbornly insisted. His eyes rose to meet Dean's. “You are certain you are well?” 

“I'm fine. I'm just fine.” And then Cas stepped forward, cupping Dean's face in his hands, his eyes wide with sincere concern, and Dean was not at all fine. In fact, Dean began to blush furiously. He stared back at Cas for a while, uncertain how this encounter could possibly end without Cas leaning forward the last little bit, and kissing him. Not that it would be bad at all. That mouth – it was obscene. How did his brothers even allow him to go out with lips like that?

But then Cas dropped his hands and stepped back. The moment was over, and Dean was left thinking that this was probably not a good line of thought for interacting with a client. “Uh. Breakfast?” Dean muttered. Without waiting for a response, he started bustling around the kitchen. Eggs. They had eggs. Some kind of omelet? That would be fast. And they still had a bunch of the vegetables Cas had chopped up the other night. Dude was badass with a knife.

“I suffered from hallucinations?” Cas asked. He was now leaning on the kitchen counter, standing a little too close, as he seemed to like to do if you didn't tell him to back off. Well, he always stood too close to Dean anyway. 

“Yeah. You seemed to think I was in trouble. I mean, I was, a little. I mean, a wyvern _did_ show up. That's where they're headed today.” He turned to look at Cas, remembering Michael's glares when Cas seemed overly concerned about Dean. “My dad thought they could pick up the trail. And if there's one dragon, there might be more.”

“I should be out there. With my brothers.”

Dean had grabbed a bowl and was breaking eggs. “Naw. They'll be fine. They'll be great now that they know where it's headed. And if it’s more than they can handle, they can always sic the dogs on it. That’s part of why you bring ‘em along: their bark scares the shit outta a lot of monsters.” He should know: the soundless bark always scared the crap out of him, and he’d been not hearing it since he was a kid.

“I would have been devastated if you had been injured,” Cas admitted. 

Dean finally quit puttering and looked at the angel, not quite understanding why he would place such a high value on someone who really wasn't much worth noticing. “I wouldn’t worry about me.”

“I do worry. I know it's potentially inappropriate,” Cas continued. “We don't yet know each other well. And so far, our interactions have been founded in a professional relationship. But I feel … I would like to know you better, Dean. If that's possible.”

Dean smiled his most amiable smile and hunched his shoulders. “What do you wanna know? I'm a pretty simple guy.”

“ _Everything_.”

Cas was doing that “leaning in too close staring too damn long” thing again. So Dean, who wasn't a discussion sort of guy, did the simplest, stupidest possible thing: leaned over and kissed him. And then he kissed him some more. And then some more, pressing his whole body against Cas, pushing him back against the counter, grabbing the back of his head and slipping another hand under the hem of his shirt, tracing fingers up along his back.

That’s when Cas threw his head back, arched his back, fluttered his dark eyelashes and gasped.

“What is it, Cas?” Dean wanted desperately to know, because, dammit, whatever he'd done, he needed to do it again, and right away.

“My … back,” Cas managed to stammer. “Sensitive.”

The wings marks, Dean thought, and he was grabbing the T-shirt's hem and tearing it off and tossing it away and then went in for another kiss, this time deliberately running a thumb up the wing mark, and sending Cas shuddering in response. 

Making out with an angel, as it turned out, was just the best thing ever. Dean hadn’t gone at it like this since high school, when everything was new, and every touch was like a stolen moment. But high school had never been like this. And Cas with those big blue eyes and those plush lips and that smell like summertime just after it rained was just got Dean wanting more.

Dean paused. He was not a high school kid any more, he was a grown man, and he knew damned well at this point in the festivities he either needed to shepherd Cas up to the bedroom - potentially ruining the moment - or else they were going to get busy in the living room, where they risked the hunting party barging in on them just as he was figuring out another ingenious way to make Cas quiver.

Feeling more than a bit like a dumb teenager, Dean grabbed Cas by the hips and stared deeply into his eyes, hoping his untried hypnotic powers must work on angels. “Come on,” he said, pulling him towards the ladder to the attic. Cas stared back, hair even more mussed than before, pupils gaping dark and wide, and somehow – Dean was never quite sure how – they both climbed up the ladder at the same time, Dean pausing only to make sure the trap door was shut good and tight.

Making out with an angel, as it turned out, was _not_ the best thing ever. Sex with an angel was. Those lips – those ridiculous, obscene-looking lips – looked even better when wrapped around him. And he was completely taken by surprise when Cas took control and climbed right on top of him, those long, muscular thighs taut as the angel rode him, whispering blasphemies the whole time. Dean hung on tight to those hips, hoping to leave a bruise or two to remind Cas whose hands had been all over him. It was crazy and sticky and nasty and mind-blowing, and afterwards, after he'd wiped off the worst of it with an old T-shirt and tossed it away, Dean pulled Cas in tight to his body, marveling how perfectly they fit together like this, making sure his chest pressed against those sensitive wing marks, letting Cas sigh and shudder and drowse, cradled safely in Dean's arms.

In his dreams, great winged beasts gave chase against a steel grey sky.

 

Dean blinked awake at the sound of the door slamming somewhere below. It was still light out, meaning he hadn't been asleep long, and that the hunting party had returned early. Something had either gone very wrong or very right.

He disentangled himself from Cas, marveling that they had evidently managed to push the twin beds together at some point during the afternoon's activities. He pulled on pants and a T-shirt and, cringing slightly as the hinges on the hatch screamed for want of DW-40, headed down to the cabin.

John's face told him all he needed to know: this had not been a successful trip. “Dad-?”

“Sam's gone.”

Dean felt his heart drop. He must have misheard. “Sammy? Wait-”

“Where's the god damned satellite phone?” John demanded. He had left in such a dark mood that morning he must have forgotten it. John grabbed the phone from Dean’s hands and stormed back outside to make a call. 

Michael entered the cabin, his expression unreadable, and disappeared without a word into his bedroom. Gadreel, his silent shadow, followed, but paused as he passed Dean. 

“I'm sorry. We'll- We'll do what we can. I promise.” And then he followed Michael.

Raphael was the last to enter. He looked as bad as Dean felt: haunted. “Dean, your brother.”

“I heard. I heard,” said Dean, who sunk down on an old weathered couch, combing his fingers through his hair. He felt a pressure on his shoulders: Hatshepsut was winding around his neck. The cat landed softly down on the couch beside him.

“What's going on?” Cas asked. He had managed to pull on a pair of pajama pants, but looked as rumpled as ever, though at least the color had returned to his cheeks. He blinked, seeing Dean's pained expression, and immediately sat down on the couch beside him. “Dean, what's wrong?”

“Sam's gone,” said Dean, who realized he didn't really know much more than this: not even whether they'd sighted a dragon. “Raph, what happened? Tell me!”

Raphael nodded and stared at the floor for a while, as if collecting his thoughts. “We were in pursuit of the wyvern we had encountered yesterday. We had proceeded up past the meadow – up further north – and Sam said the dogs were growing quiet. He wasn't certain why. I remember he and your father had a disagreement regarding this point.

“Michael said he saw something fly by. I didn't personally see it, but he seemed quite certain. They continued ahead – your father and Michael. And Gadreel, of course. They left me with Sam. And... And the dogs. The dogs were quiet. Sam was having a great deal of difficulty....” Raphael trailed off and paused, as if forming the words had become a burden. “Did he know someone named … Tee Bear?”

It took Dean a moment. “T. Bear? Yeah, it was a stuffed animal he had when he was a kid. He dragged it everywhere. And one day it sort of turned up missing. I always suspected Dad dumped it, but I don't know.” He also recalled little Sammy stoically not crying when they failed to locate it. “Why?”

“He started addressing remarks to T. Bear. 'Is that you? Don't you see him?' Finally he handed over the leashes for the dogs, and departed into the woods to check. And... And that's the last I saw of Sam, Dean. That's the last I saw your brother. After he didn't return for what I considered an overly lengthy period of time, I began to call out for him. I was going to loose the hounds, as they were straining quite badly against their leashes, but your father's party returned, and he insisted we make our way back here, as he had evidently neglected to bring along the satellite phone.”

Dean’s mind whirled. Why hadn’t John gone after Sam? Why did he turn back? “But didn't he-” he began.

The front door banged open. “Where the fuck is Rufus?” John stormed back inside, raging now. “I can't raise him on any of his numbers.”

Dean turned on John, ready to scream. Why did he turn back? What the fuck was he doing here while Sam was somewhere out there? He struggled to remain calm, biting it back, like he always did. “Remember, he's retired, Dad-”

“I don't give a fuck what he's doing now!” John bellowed. “My boy is missing!”

Cas was standing up, reaching for the phone. “If search and rescue is required, then we will call my brother.”

“No,” snapped Michael, who reached over and snatched the phone from John. Dean did a double take. When had he slithered out of his room? Wasn't he off pouting? “Castiel, we are not getting Gabriel involved. That is the last thing we need right now.”

“What are you talking about?” Dean fumed. He was a hair away from losing it. “My brother is out there!”

“My boy,” said John, though he had gone quiet in Michael's presence.

“You were aware of the risks, Mr. Winchester,” said Michael coldly. Dean turned expectantly towards his father, awaiting some sign of protest. But for some reason, John bit his tongue.

Cas, on the other hand, was having none of it. “Michael, why can't we contact Gabriel?” he demanded.

“He has a big mouth,” grumbled Michael, who leaned over to grab the T-shirt that lay crumpled up on the couch. “Castiel, isn't this yours? What is this doing here?” he asked. Dean immediately realized it was Cas's shirt - the one he'd practically torn off Cas a couple hours ago. And here was Cas, even more tousled than usual and standing around half naked. Of all the things to happen now! 

“That is my shirt,” Cas confirmed.

“What is it doing out here?” asked Michael, his eyes narrowed. He was looking between Cas and Dean now.

“Dean removed it. We were having sexual relations.”

Dean was ready to die. Right there. He happened to glance over at Gadreel. For the first time he could recall, the angel was smiling.

Michael's grey eyes went dark. “Castiel, what have I told you about getting involved with humans?”

“That is not of import, Michael. Give me the phone.”

“We are _not_ calling Gabriel.”

Cas had suddenly closed the distance between Michael and himself. The two angels were nearly nose to nose. “Give me the phone, Michael,” said Cas, his rough voice low and dangerous. “Now. Do not make me ask again.” 

Michael glanced over at Gadreel, who had seated himself on one of the worn couches. The taciturn angel only stared with ill-concealed malice, placing his hands in his lap. If Michael was seeking aid from his bodyguard, it was clear he wasn't going to get it.

Michael shoved the phone into Cas's hands. “You will inform your brother that he is to exercise the most severe discretion in this matter!” And then he turned on his heel and stomped back into his bedroom. Gadreel stood to follow him, but first the tall angel looked at Dean and offered an arched eyebrow. 

As Castiel marched outside to call Gabriel, Dean held his breath, bracing himself for the coming storm. 

“ _You_.” So much anger, so much self-righteousness, so much pure fury, all crammed into that syllable. Clients be damned, John was ready to explode. “Sam is out there somewhere and you-”

“Mr. Winchester,” said Raphael. Dean had forgotten he was even in the room. “Please. Now is not the time!” 

Dean could see John wrestling with himself. But in the end, arguing with a client was a line he refused to cross. Shooting a glare at Dean, he muttered, “This isn't over,” and stormed off. 

Biting his lip, Dean turned to Raphael, expecting to get it with both barrels from Cas's brother. But instead, the angel said, “Dean, we'll find your brother. Whatever assistance you require, we will offer it.”

“Thanks, Raph,” said Dean, who was genuinely touched. Raphael puffed up with a kind of quiet dignity, nodded, and went to his room. 

Dean stared out the window and noticed the sun was slipping beneath the horizon. It was too late to begin a search. He was still wondering why the hell his father hadn't sent the dogs after Sam while the trail was fresh. It was just plain weird. 

His boots were sitting by the door. Dean stepped bare feet into them and shrugged into his coat. He grabbed another coat from the rack and headed outside, where Cas was standing out in the early winter chill wearing just a thin pair of pajama pants. 

The angel didn't seem affected by the cold however. “Yes. Please tell him it's his brother calling. Thank you.” He held a hand over the satellite phone's mouthpiece.

“Is that Gabe?” asked Dean, handing over the jacket. Cas smiled a thank you.

“No. A … uh … female acquaintance.”

“Oh. Gabe makes friends fast.”

“That he does,” said Cas. He held the phone to his ear once again. “Sam Winchester is missing. You will set forth apace. We will offer all assistance.” And then he hung up the phone. “He will be here shortly,” he informed Dean.

“Uh, OK,” said Dean. Evidently, Gabriel was used to Castiel's somewhat unorthodox communication style. Speaking of which, “Uh, Cas, can we talk?”

“Certainly, Dean.”

Dean stood for a while out in the chill, trying to force his thoughts into words. “It's about _us_. I mean, you and me?” Well, _duh_. Dean tried to start again. “I mean, it's about my dad. He didn't really know about us?”

“He does now.”

“Well, yeah. That's the thing-”

“You father perhaps harbors prejudices against angelkind?” asked Cas, his head listing to the side.

“My father doesn't know.... I mean, me, with, you know, _guys_?” To be honest, John had almost certainly figured it out. It just wasn't something they talked about. Sam knew, but Sam was Sam. And how Dean desperately missed him now.

It took Cas a moment, but it eventually computed. “Oh! That's a rather ridiculous prejudice. Did you wish for me to enlighten him?”

“No!” Dean's mind flashed to an image of Castiel facing down John the way he had Michael. It was actually kind of awesome. But probably not for the best right now. “Just … let me deal with him for now, OK?”

“Family matters. Yes, I understand. Families can be … difficult.”

“Yeah.” Dean hesitated, reluctant to go inside. It would take Gabriel a while to get up here, even if, as Cas said, he started right away. What would he do until then? He needed to keep busy, to quit worrying himself about Sam and John's increasingly bizarre behavior. “I think.... I think I'll make us some dinner,” he finally decided.

“I will assist you!” said Cas, placing a confident hand on Dean’s shoulder, as if he were signing up for some kind of fight instead of making meatloaf.

“Thanks, Cas,” said Dean. And then Cas circled arms around him and brought him in for what must have been the world’s most awkward hug. 

Dean tried not to weep. 

 

There was enough food to feed an army by the time they heard the familiar roar of the Cessna’s engines overhead. Most of it was still spread out on the table. For once in his life, Dean hadn’t been much in the mood to eat. Cas didn't eat a lot either, but fed bits to Hatshepsut, who seated herself contentedly on his shoulder. Raphael, the only other person who'd bothered to come out of his room, plated some food and then morosely occupied himself shoving it around with a fork. If Ellen had been there, she would have yelled at him. 

By silent agreement, all three of them ended up walking down to greet the plane that taxied in on the beach. Dean was startled when Jo hopped out, accompanied by several of Bobby's dogs, and then none other than Bobby himself.

“Jo? What are you doing here?” Dean asked when she released him from a tight hug.

“Are you kidding? The Moose is on the loose, and I'm supposed to sit this one out?” She grinned and patted one of the hounds.

Cas looked perplexed. “A moose? There is a moose?” 

“Sammy's nickname,” laughed Dean. He smiled wider as Bobby pulled him into an embrace, enthusiastically slapping his back.

“We'll get the boy back. You can count on that.” He stuck out his hand at Raphael. “Raph. Nice to see you again. Sorry about the circumstances.”

“I apologize that my brother, Michael, is not here to greet you as well, Mr. Singer.”

“Just Bobby will do.”

“I understand these are your hunting hounds? They are remarkable creatures.”

Bobby straightened up, obviously flattered. “Well, thanks. Now, where the hell is John?”

“Back up at the cabin,” Dean told him. “He's been in his room since they all got back.”

“The rat bastard should be out planning the rescue! Don't worry, I'll rouse the old son of a bitch.” Bobby stomped towards the cabin, and Raphael, who was possibly of a mind to see fireworks that did not involve his own family, padded along behind him.

Gabriel hopped out of the plane and swaggered over to greet everyone. 

“Hello, Gabriel,” said Cas.

“Gabe, thanks for bringing Bobby and Jo along,” Dean told him.

Gabriel looked uncharacteristically seriously. “I tried to rustle up Rufus too, but the old bastard has disappeared.

“My dad couldn't reach him either,” Dean confessed, his relief at seeing his friends washing back into worry. Hatshepsut, who had been perched on Cas's shoulders, suddenly jumped over onto Dean's instead, nuzzling his neck. 

Gabe paused, his mouth open. He looked back and forth between Cas and Dean. “Cas. You didn't!” he finally said.

Cas smiled, and placed a hand on Dean's shoulder. Dean blushed a pleasant shade of cherry.

Jo was watching Cas and Dean as well. “Wait! No way! The hot angel?” She held up a hand. When he realized what she was doing, Dean, somewhat reluctantly, returned the high five gesture.

“Well,” said Gabe, glaring at Dean, “we got a situation right now, so I'll have to postpone the interrogation.”

“Hey, two can play at the interrogation game, angel boy,” Jo told Gabe, resting an elbow on his shoulder. “You look kinda shifty to me!”

“Who looks shifty?”

“You.”

“Hey, kid. You're not as dumb as you look.”

“Uh, is anybody hungry?” Dean ventured, wishing to turn the conversation to just about anything else besides what was happening between him and Cas. “I've got dinner on the table.”

“I can always eat,” said Gabriel, patting his belly. Baggage was grabbed, and, with a couple of slobbering dogs in pursuit, they headed up towards the cabin. 

Bobby, red-faced, was standing out in front. “Where the fuck is your daddy, Dean?”

“What's the matter, Bobby?” asked Dean. “He's been in his room for hours now.”

“There's nobody in that room.”

Dean tore past Bobby and headed into the cabin. “Dad!” he yelled, storming into this father's room. But Bobby was right, his father was not there. “What the hell is going on?”

“They’re gone. They’re all gone,” came a voice.

“Raph? Are you in here?” asked Dean. The door to the bedroom Michael was using was standing open, so Dean looked in. Raphael was sitting on a bed, looking very lost. 

He was the only person in the room.

“Raph? Where the hell did everybody go?”

“I didn't know about this,” Raphael insisted. “Nobody told me about this! It’s not my fault!”

Dean was losing it. “Told you about what? Where's my dad? Where are your brothers? Did they already go after Sammy? Where the fuck is everybody?”

Raphael looked up and shook his head forlornly. “I have … no idea.”

“God damn,” said Bobby, who was now standing beside Dean. “Too damn many disappeared individuals.”

“Hey, Dean-o are these your scones?” Gabe mumbled through a too-full mouth.

 

In the end, a good portion of the dinner Dean had prepared ended up getting eaten after all. Gabe was some kind of black hole of food, and his enthusiasm seemed to somehow infect the group, so, after he finally calmed down a little, even Dean found a little of his appetite had returned. 

Further inspection of the rooms revealed John and the angels had taken some of the gear along with them, but not a satellite phone, so the best guess (which was all they could muster) was that they had struck out to find Sam. But Dean had no idea why they hadn't waited for Gabriel, especially after John had been so insistent on contacting Rufus. And Dean also had no idea (nor could anybody tell him) why they hadn't taken along any of the hounds if tracking was their intent. 

Over dinner, Bobby made Raphael go through what he remembered several times, in considerable detail. Deciding to put his suspicions all out on the table, Dean related that both Michael and John had been acting secretive, and that John had been drinking. Bobby gripped his coffee mug and asked, “So, now that we got the stories straight, what do you fellows suppose is goin' on?”

“It's gotta be Luci involved in this somehow,” Gabriel piped up. He was picking at a walnut that had gotten wedged between his back molars.

“Luci?” asked Bobby. “You think this is over some gal?”

“Our brother, Lucifer,” Raphael supplied. “And Gabriel, you really can't blame him for everything.”

Gabriel licked his fingers and arched an eyebrow at his brother. “Then why was Uriel in town?”

Raphael goggled. “Uriel is in town? When? Where?”

“Cas and I ran into him, along with a couple of his goons. At that bar in town. Toby's?”

“Why didn't you tell me?” Raphael whined.

“Dude, you are so out of the loop,” said Dean. 

“Gabe, you go catch us up on the dustup between Mike and Luci then,” Bobby said.

Gabriel sighed and made a big deal of checking his watch. “How much time you got? The short answer is, with our dad gone, Mike is the CEO. Mike doesn’t like to be second-guessed, and Lucifer is a born second-guesser. See, Mike is suspicious of humans.”

“And Luci likes us?” asked Bobby.

“No. Luci’s attitude might be comfortably summed up as, ‘genocide.’”

“Nice,” said Dean.

“But you told me _you_ worked for Lucifer,” said Jo, who had finished her food and was playing with her steak knife.

Gabe shrugged. “Hey, we all do dumb stuff sometimes. And at least Luci’s got a sense of humor.”

“And what?” asked Jo, arching an eyebrow. “We’re the punchline?”

“Nothing personal, kiddo,” Gabe insisted.

“You'll find us humans get a might touchy over words like ‘genocide,’” said Bobby. 

“Gabriel,” said Cas. “Uriel was attempting to hire Rufus Turner the night we encountered him. Do you suppose that is the reason for Mr. Turner's abrupt disappearance?”

Gabriel actually stopped eating for a moment to ponder this. “I know Rufus well enough to know he wouldn’t work for those bastards. He had no respect for them!” 

“Would your brother have tried to coerce him?” asked Bobby. “Bein’ that Rufus is human?”

“Oh, hell yeah,” Gabe admitted.

Bobby sighed. “Well, with all respect, there’s too damn much angel plotting and planning for my stomach. No offense.”

“None taken,” said Gabe.

Bobby scratched his beard and pondered. “What I’d suggest is we get started tomorrow at first light. We'll go about it with everything: by air, and on the ground. I’ll round up scents of our missing persons. Gabe, can you fly over the area in a search pattern? Now, mind, you gotta be wary of dragons around here.”

Gabriel literally snorted. “Hey, I can out-fly a stupid dragon. Those things have brains the size of walnuts.”

Bobby sat back and grinned at Gabriel. “And they also breathe fire and the bulls can grow three times as big as that puddle-jumper you’re flyin’.”

“Hey, speaking of the plane, did we remember to bring along Grammy’s package?” Jo asked.

“What package?” Dean asked as Bobby got up to go grab something out of his pack.

“Damnedest thing,” said Bobby, tossing an opened cardboard box on the table in front of Jo. “Showed up just before we took off.”

“You know how nowadays Grammy is always wandering over to Bobby's to get her package?” Jo asked. Dean and Cas exchanged a glance. 

“Is your grandmother somewhat less agitated these days?” Cas inquired.

“Yes, thanks to you, Cas. But she still asks about the package.” Jo tilted the box up so they could see the address. In very neat marker, it read, “Mrs. Murray Harvelle.”

Jo pushed the package over to Dean. “So who sent it?” he asked.

“No return address.” Jo was rolling her eyes. “And the postmark is illegible. Of course.”

“What's in it?”

“Go ahead and look.”

Dean rummaged in the package, Cas now curiously peeking over his shoulder, and even Hatshepsut sticking her nose inside. It all seemed so random. He pulled out a couple of items. One was an ornate hand mirror. Another was an old tin measuring cup. And there were a bunch of little ceramic figures. “I don't understand.”

“My best guess was that it was some of her own old junk,” said Bobby. 

Dean dug through the package, puzzling over the odd contents. “Maybe she mailed it to herself?”

“If she did, I sure didn't see her send it out,” Bobby told them.

“But she wanted me to take it with us,” said Jo. “She insisted! So I did.”

The respective parties cleaned up the dinner table and sorted themselves into the various bedrooms to retire for the night, in anticipation of an early start. Jo took over the room John had been using, and Bobby and Gabe spread their gear in the room Michael and Gadreel had occupied. 

As Dean was climbing up the ladder towards the loft, Gabriel yelled after him, “Hey, you guys try not to be too loud tonight!”

“Same for you guys!” Dean shot back, to Bobby’s snorted laughter. 

Dean didn't actually feel like doing much of anything but feeling miserable. He worried he wouldn't get any sleep, as he was anxious about his father and brother, but with Cas wrapped around him, somehow, strong, soft wings urged him to a deep, deep slumber.

 

The next morning, Bobby rounded up pieces of clothing from all of the missing hunters and let the hounds catch the scent. 

Gabriel took off in the Cessna, along with Raphael and a load of camera equipment that the angel claimed would help in spotting traces of the disappeared. The rest of the party, after waving greetings to the fishermen, who were up early as usual, followed Bobby and the dogs up the trail towards where they had spotted the wyvern the previous day.

Despite having so many experienced hunters along, Dean found he was quite anxious. They had lost precious time by sitting out the night. Wyverns preferred to keep a stock of live prey, but there was a limit to how long they'd keep you around the den, especially if there were young to feed. 

He wondered again how Sam had apparently gotten poisoned when he hadn't been stung. Dean knew for a fact that Cas had no sting marks anywhere on his body (he'd done a rather thorough search there). There were getting to be too many things about this hunt that didn't add up.

Hatshepsut leapt up onto his shoulders. The cat apparently now considered Dean as one of her perches. On the first hunt she had happily disappeared for long periods, but today she seemed to be keeping close.

“This is where you saw it?” asked Jo, who was now scanning the meadow with a pair of field glasses.

Dean hadn't realized how far they'd walked. “Yeah. I hadn't seen so many stupid unicorns together for some time. It was impressive.”

“Those things suck,” Jo laughed. “I guided a guy last season who insisted on going after one.”

Dean smiled wistfully. “They really suck.”

One of the dogs was snuffling around in the field. It was probably the one Bobby had given Sam's T-shirt to sniff. It padded around, and then returned to Bobby. “Dead end, huh?” he asked the dog.

“Sam ran around and mostly just got muddy,” said Dean. “But this is where we spotted the wyvern.”

Bobby looked puzzled. “Don't often see them go after unicorn. Even when their bellies are empty.”

“I see why it might have done it,” Dean said. “I mean, we had separated one from the herd. The wyvern probably thought it was easy pickings.”

“Unicorns are _never_ easy pickings,” said Jo, and Dean had to nod in sympathy. 

The Cessna roared by overhead, and Dean stopped and waved, not knowing whether or not they could see him. Angel eyes were supposed to be sharp, and Raph had all that fancy-dancy camera equipment.

And then, as one, the dogs stilled. It was as if Bobby had ordered them to hunt.

“OK, this is creepy,” Jo whispered, fingering the knife she had tucked in her belt.

Dean actually jumped when the satellite phone rang. Cas, who had been carrying it, picked it up and quietly listened for a moment. “Thank you,” he said at length, putting down the phone. “My brothers have spotted something due east of here, at a distance of approximately two miles.”

“You gonna fill us in?” Bobby demanded.

“Raphael said it resembled a wyvern.”

“'Resembled?'”

“It was difficult to assess fully, as it is keeping to the ground.”

“Maybe it's wounded?” Dean put out. Bobby and Jo both shook their heads.

“There's more,” said Cas. “It was in pursuit of some quarry. They surmised, but did not confirm, that the quarry was human.”

“Sammy!” said Dean immediately. “We gotta get over there.”

“Wait!” Bobby ordered, grabbing Dean' shoulder. “We gotta think this thing through.”

“It's my brother, Bobby.”

“It's a damn dragon, boy. Think! We go in with a plan.”

Dean gritted his teeth. Bobby was right. He closed his eyes and forced himself to think it through. “OK. There's two paths going east from here. One's flat, but it's exposed. The other's less direct, but it's got cover.” He opened his eyes. “I say I take the straight path, try to distract the dragon from whatever it's chasing. The rest of you take the other route. We can surround it with the dogs if we catch it by surprise.”

“I'll go with you, Dean,” said Cas.

“Cas, you don't need to-”

“Yes he does,” said Bobby. “Cas, you keep this boy from doin' anything stupid. We'll come around with the dogs and meet you. And Dean, you listen to me, you just keep whoever it is safe 'til we get there. You hear me?”

Dean forced himself to heed to Bobby's words. There really was no hunter who commanded his respect like Bobby Singer, not even his father. He would distract the Wyvern the way he had the other day to save Cas and Raphael. It would be easier with two of them. But now he needed to get going, and fast, before it was too late.

“Come on, Cas!” Dean took off running, not even checking behind to make certain the angel was keeping up with him. The terrain was rough, and he was wearing heavy boots and carrying a pack, but damned if he was going to let some dumb fire-breathing dragon son of a bitch get to his brother first. 

The forest flew by. The pathway had been plowed out by a caterpillar tractor ages ago, and the rough slices from the tracks still slatted the ground, though weeds had sprung up over the summer. He strained his ears, listening for the familiar shriek of a wyvern, but for now the only sound was the chill autumn wind, and his blood pumping in his ears.

He heard the crackle and snap of underbrush somewhere in front of him and to the left. The pathway here paralleled a muddy stream, one of the tributaries of the main river. Hoping that Cas would see to follow, he veered off the main pathway and pushed through the woods, still running as fast as he could, dodging around trees and hopping over fallen logs in his way.

He heard the frenetic splashing sound, like someone running through water, and sighted a tall figure disappearing onto the dense woods on the other bank just as broke through the trees at the edge of the stream.

“Sammy!” he screamed. There was a great slapping of heavy footsteps coming from around the riverbend. Something monstrous was on its way downstream. He impulsively waded right into the middle of the stream and started waving his arms. The shin-deep water rushed by, chilling him. “Right here, motherfucker!” 

But what came flapping around the corner on tree trunk-sized chicken legs was not a wyvern. Instead of a great lizard's maw, Dean found himself now face to face with something that looked very much like an overgrown rooster bearing down on him. 

Dean raised his weapon and managed to get off a couple of shots, but they just bounced off as the beast continued to charge. “Oh, shit,” he muttered.

“Don't look at it, Dean!” yelled Cas, who was suddenly right there, shoving Dean out of the way and desperately raising up his sword. Dean stumbled and stared in disbelief as Cas did not strike, but rather simply held the sword up, the highly polished blade parallel to the ground.

“Cas, watch out!” Dean warned.

The beast cawed and reared back its great head as if to strike. But all of a sudden, it froze, beady eyes goggling at Cas's sword. It emitted a bone-piercing shriek, and collapsed into the river with a mighty splash.

Keeping his sword raised, Cas carefully approached the monster. He gave it a nudge with his boot. And now some hounds rushed out from the other direction, leaping into the stream and nosing at it.

“What the holy hell is that thing?” yelled Bobby, who was standing up on the other bank.

“You don't know?” asked Dean, his voice breaking slightly.

“Ain't a Chinese dragon. I don't even think it's native.”

“It's not,” said Cas, who was sheathing his sword. “It's a basilisk.”

“What did you do to it?” Dean asked.

“The creature is mortally wounded by viewing its own reflection,” Cas told him. “My sword was not an optimal size for the task, but it managed to serve.”

Dean blinked at Cas, who was reacting casually to the whole “nearly eaten by a basilisk” thing. “Bobby,” he called. “I thought I saw Sammy!”

“If found him!” called Jo, who was now coming out of the woods along with a several barking dogs. She was helping along a tall, limping person.

That person wasn't Sam.

Dean's heart sank.

“Brother?” asked Castiel. The injured man painfully raised his head and peered over at him. His clothes were torn, and he was having a hard time putting weight on one leg, but somewhere under the blood and grime, it was Gadreel.

“Castiel!” Gadreel tried to move forward, but ended up pitching forward instead, and was only saved from toppling over by Bobby quickly shoring him up. 

“We need to get this man back,” said Bobby. “What happened, son?”

“This is Lucifer’s doing,” said Cas. “The basilisk is his weapon.”

“What?” said Dean.

Gadreel nodded sadly. “Yes. Our brother, Lucifer.” He appeared almost ready to faint again, but then rallied. “You must get away from here. Quickly! He is watching. He is ever present.”

Dean stared at Gadreel: this was about the most he had ever heard from the taciturn angel. “I will call my brother,” said Cas, pulling out the phone. “He will transport Gadreel back.”

“Cas, you can't land anywhere this far upriver,” Bobby told him. 

“My brother is an adept pilot,” Cas said simply. “Raphael,” he said into the phone. “Can you visualize us?” There was a roar overhead, and the plane came in to view. “We require transport.” Castiel listened for a moment, and then abruptly hung up the phone without saying goodbye, as was his manner. “We will take Gadreel towards the main river,” he instructed.

Dean stifled his disappointment and tried to concentrate all his efforts on bringing the injured angel out to where Gabriel evidently claimed he could land the plane. Dean knew a lot of bush pilots – great ones like Rufus, and not so great ones – but he reckoned Bobby was right, it was a fool's errand looking for enough runway this far upriver.

With Cas and Dean's support, Gadreel managed to make it out to where the trail opened up. Though he was pale and weak, when they sat him down on the rocks to rest for a moment and gave him a drink from the water, he seemed to rally slightly, and he appeared less agitated now that they were away from where the basilisk had chased him. 

The Cessna circled overhead while Gabriel scanned for a suitable landing approach. “Can you tell us what happened, Gadreel?” Bobby ventured as everyone stood around and Dean tried not to appear too anxious. “You folks all lit off the other day – is that right?”

Staring up at the Cessna, Gadreel nodded glumly and handed the canteen back to Jo. “Lucifer's men – Uriel was leading them – surprised us and quickly overpowered us. They are staying not far from where you effected my rescue. I was given to understand that they had coerced the man, Rufus Turner, to transport them there.”

“Were they in bad shape too?” Bobby asked.

“All were being treated well. I was injured when I escaped.”

“So Rufus was there?” Dean broke in.

“Yes.”

“What about Sam? Did you see my brother?”

Gadreel shook his head sadly. “I did not see your brother, Dean Winchester. I am sorry, but he was not there.”

Dean felt his heart sink. “Then what's going on? What do you know? Where the hell is my brother?”

“Dean,” Bobby cautioned.

Gadreel sat up straight, his eyes seeming to pierce through Dean. “Your brother is currently being held as a hostage in the court of Oberon.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so I know I said this would be 5 chapters, but I kind of lied, it's actually more like 7, though one of them is gonna be a really short epilogue. Anyway, the good news is I'll have all the rest of it up this weekend. I've been a little distracted by GISHWHES even though I'm not even signed up for the silly thing. Anyways, have a chapter.

“Now, somebody tell me, _who the fuck is Oberon_?” demanded Dean.

Dean’s initial inquiry into clarifying the current status of his little brother had been rudely interrupted by a bit of showy flying from Cas’s brother Gabe, who had chosen the exact moment, literally seconds after Gadreel had first pronounced the name, to bring the small Cessna in for a bravura landing on a bumpy piece of turf nor much longer than the plane itself. Raphael had thereupon popped out, bent over, and puked up seemingly everything he had eaten for at least the past month.

“Raph, kiddo, you gotta get used to air travel. It’s the wave of the future!” Gabe had chortled as Cas kindly rubbed his ailing brother’s back and Bobby handed over a canteen of cold water. 

“Please don't let your heart be worried for Sam,” Gadreel finally told Dean, “for I reckon that he is safe there.”

“Oberon,” mulled Jo. “Wait, like Midsummer Night's Dream Oberon? The fairy king guy?”

“Jo, don’t be such a dork,” Dean told her.

“No, your friend is correct,” Gadreel told them. 

“Oh, fuck! Our fucking brother is fucking with the fairy realm?” said Gabriel, who was prompted to look up from where Raphael was sadly watching his last few meals drift in bits and chunks down the river. And then, just for good measure, Gabe added, “Fuck!”

“Fairies?” asked Dean, who felt like he had wandered into the movie twenty minutes late. “You mean the little dudes with wings?”

“Yes, that would explain many anomalies,” said Cas, who, to Dean’s great annoyance, was nodding sagely.

“What anomalies?” Dean demanded.

“This area is a veritable hot spot for supernatural activity. If Michael really is in contact with the fairy realm, it is possible that the wall between the worlds happens to be especially thin here, as it were.”

“I'm still trying to get my head around the fact that Oberon is a real dude,” said Jo. “Anybody else need a drink?” she added, pulling out a flask.

“Pass it over, girl,” sighed Bobby. “Gadreel, if this is true, what's your brother doing messing with fairies?”

“Michael is at war, as are all of us, with our brother, Lucifer. Some time ago, Michael hatched a plan to ally with Oberon.”

“He didn't tell me anything about this!” raved Raphael, who had a cold towel on his forehead, and looked anything but imposing. “I'm supposed to be his second in command!”

Gabriel guffawed, which got him a dirty look from Raph. “Dude, isn't it obvious? You're so totally not in the loop.”

“Shut up, Gabriel!” Raphael countered.

“ _Shut up, Gabriel_ ,” Gabe mocked.

“You boys, cut the crap,” Bobby yelled. Gabe stuck out his tongue at Raphael, who looked ready to smite.

“And Oberon required a hostage?” Castiel asked Gadreel.

“Yes, that was stated as part of the negotiation. That was why Michael insisted we hire outfitters, though they were obviously not required for our real purposes.”

“Yeah?” asked Dean. Castiel held out an arm to keep him from rushing Gadreel. “They why didn't you guys just offer one of your own damn brothers as a hostage?”

“Dean, they wouldn't accept an angel,” said Cas quietly. “Only a human is thought to be worthwhile.”

“So you offered up my brother? This whole hunting trip has all been a sham?”

Gadreel shook his head. “Michael contacted John Winchester. Your father was aware of the … _situation_. But they were not to take Sam. They were to have taken _you_ , Dean. In return, we were to have paid for your brother's education.”

“My dad offered...?” Dean was struck silent. He sat down on a fallen tree, his mind reeling. “My dad was gonna...?” He couldn't continue. 

Gabriel crossed his arms and snorted. “Kiddo, your dad is one prize asshole.”

“My opinion of him is not high,” agreed Castiel, who was glowering.

“And Cassie thinks he's an asshole.”

“It was-” Gadreel trailed off. “I believe it was dishonorable of Michael to do this.”

“And Gads concurs. We got a rare quorum of angels,” said Gabe. 

“Let’s not get distracted here. So you and Mike and John were on your way to talk to Oberon when you lit off the other night?” Bobby asked Gadreel.

“That is correct. John Winchester wished to seek Oberon, in order to correct the mistake. Michael attempted to dissuade him, but finally agreed to accompany him. We obviously did not realize Lucifer and his people awaited us nearby.”

“I guess the next time we go out packing mirrors,” said Bobby.

“That is a salient point,” said Gadreel. “For I fear there are likely more basilisks in the vicinity.”

“Hey,” said Jo, who was helping herself to a shot of whiskey. “My grammy's package. Remember? It had a mirror in it!”

Everyone stared at Jo for a long moment. 

“It's gotta be a coincidence, Jo,” Dean told her.

“There’s no such thing as a coincidence!” said Gabe. “What else was in there? Do you remember?”

“Those dumb little ceramic black birds,” said Jo. “You used to get one of these in every package of tea. Let’s see, and an old-fashioned measuring cup....”

Gabe’s eyes lit up. “Oh, hey, I got an idea! This is perfect,” he said, rubbing his hands together.

“Yep,” said Bobby. “That’s a good idea.”

“ _What’s_ a good idea?” asked Dean. “Are you guys insane?”

“Baked stuff, Dean-o!” said Gabe. “Fairies have a sweet tooth. I mean, even more than yours truly.” He patted his stomach. “You set out a plate of goodies to call a meeting. And believe me, brother, anything you cook up will do the trick nicely.”

Dean took a deep breath. “Seriously? My brother is being held hostage, my dad has been kidnapped by your crazy brother, and you want me to _go bake you cookies_? What the hell, Gabe!”

“Well, I was thinking scones not cookies,” said Gabriel with a sly grin.

Dean felt a hand gripping his shoulder. “Dean,” said Cas. “We will use your baked goods only as an entrée to parley with Oberon. If we gain an audience, it is possible we can persuade him to assist us in freeing your father and the others from Lucifer. Fairies can be….” He trailed off, as if searching for words. “They can be _frustrating_ to deal with, but they do have a code of honor, of a sort. If they indeed arranged an audience with Michael, and Lucifer is interfering, then they might perceive his move as hostile, and be amenable to intervene.”

Dean struggled to calm himself. Things were bad, and he wanted to go punch somebody, not spend an hour in the kitchen.

“And... I can assist you in the food preparation?” Cas suggested. Dean had a sudden and completely unbidden image of Cas covered in cake flour.

“He's hooked,” whispered Gabe.

“We gotta get moving,” said Bobby. “And Gadreel is right, we probably wanna clear the area for now, if it’s liable to be full of those basilisks. Can you take your brother back, Gabe?”

“Aw, hell!” said Gabe. “I’ll take the lot of you. Dogs too!”

“Sounds like a plan,” said Bobby.

“No it doesn’t,” rasped Raphael.

“It sounds like a really _bad_ plan,” said Dean.

In the end, nobody listened to Dean, or any voice of reason. And he had to agree that he wanted to get back and get started on the search for Sammy as quickly as possible.

“Isn't this over the regulation weight?” he asked after he'd been strapped into a seat in the Cessna between a couple of panting hounds.

“Regulation schmegulation!” answered Gabriel. Cas was now up beside Gabe in the co-pilot's seat. Raphael, sitting beside Dean along with more dogs, seemed considerably less blithe about the whole thing. 

“My brother is an able pilot!” Cas told them, stroking Hatshepsut's tail. 

“He's one crazy sumbitch,” Bobby whispered in Dean's ear, which did not instill confidence. 

“Geronimo!” hollered Gabe, and then the engines revved and the plane surged forward, looking as if it would slam right into a wall of trees. But at the very last minute, the craft heaved up, and they were aloft, heading back to the cabin and, Dean hoped, firm ground.

“Taking off – no problemo!” yelled Gabe over the roar of the engine.

“Yeah, right,” sighed Dean, who was no fan of flying.

“It's the landing – that's gonna totally suck!” Gabe winked, and Dean distracted himself by concocting interesting ways to murder him all the way back to the Winchester’s cabin.

 

As it turned out, Gabriel was better than his word, and landed the overweight plane with no fatalities. 

Raphael repaired to his room (sparing a glare at Gabriel, who had after all managed to get the plane aground without any further intestinal fireworks) and returned with his laptop computer. He then commandeered a great swath of the kitchen table with an array of cameras downloading images from their search that day. He peered silently at the screen, muttering profanities under his breath and urgently clicking his mouse.

Gadreel was still feeling unwell, but after Gabriel applied a bit of angel healing power to him, and they got him sitting down with a bowl of Dean’s tomato rice soup, he appeared to recover somewhat from his ordeal.

Jo pulled out Gramma Harvelle’s package once again, and this time slowly pored over the contents along with Bobby and Cas, who quietly discussed the possible significance of each item.

“I found it!” Raphael suddenly exclaimed.

Everyone paused to stare at him, and he turned his laptop around, pointing excitedly. “The fairy ring. Oberon's front door. Right here.”

People gathered around to peer at the computer screen. There it was, deep in the forest: the outline of a perfect circle where nothing grew. It was huge, literally hundreds of meters in diameter. 

“You know, they say those rings are formed where wyvern tails hit the ground,” said Bobby.

“That must have been one big ass dragon,” said Dean.

“Well, that's our target for scone delivery,” said Gabe, giving Raph a friendly slap on the back. “It's all up to you now, Dean-o.”

 

The next hour was a whirl of activity. Despite protests from both passengers, Gabriel departed to fly Gadreel and Jo back into town. Jo was instructed to contact the local Sheriff's office regarding Lucifer, and Bobby also asked her to watch over Gramma Harvelle to see if she had anything else to say about the hunt. After dosing himself with Dramamine, Raphael rode along, intending to tend to a few business matters in Michael's absence. However, he made Dean swear to wait on attempting to contact Oberon until his return.

Bobby remained at the cabin. He puttered around, feeding and watering his dogs, and then promptly retired for a well-earned nap, warning Dean that whatever he and Cas did, he needed to keep the noise level the hell down.

As for Dean, his agenda for the afternoon had been set. Actually, he mused, despite his protestations to Gabriel, baking a pie wasn't the worst thing to be doing right now. People thought of pies as something fancy, but they were simple, and Dean found it kind of soothing to get his hands dirty working the butter into the flour mixture. He set knife-happy Cas to slicing up some apples and tending to the filling. And then showed the angel how to knead up a crust, which actually was a lot of Dean wrapping himself around Cas, guiding his hands in the dough and just happening to kiss his neck now and then (well, hell, it was there). It was messy and distracting. 

After making damned sure Bobby's bedroom door was shut, Dean placed the pie in the oven to bake and then contented himself by lifting Cas up to sit on the messy counter and then just plain making out like a couple of dumb teenagers until the timer bell rang. 

“Now what?” asked Cas, as Dean pulled the piping hot pie from the oven, smelling the sweet fruit and cinnamon and the hint of fresh lemon peel.

“Now we wait for it to cool,” said Dean, grabbing a fist-full of Cas's shirt and pulling him towards the ladder for the attic. They reached the bedroom and Dean dropped the trap door behind him, and then pushed a heavy bureau on top of it. “No interruptions!” he told Cas, pushing him down onto the bed. 

 

Dean was strolling along a shady forest pathway when he came to a broad swath where, quite suddenly, no vegetation grew. Nothing, that is, except a cluster of toadstools. He squatted down to examine them. He wasn't an expert on magical lore like Bobby, but as an avid cook he was pretty sure these were edible. He thought about pulling some of them up to toss into a recipe. Sautéed mushrooms would make a great addition to a stew.

“There is no doubt an extensive network of mycelia underground,” said Cas. Dean peered up at him. The angel was dressed, oddly enough, in the ill-fitting suit and wrinkled long coat he had worn when Dean first encountered him at the town air strip.

Dean straightened up. “Uh, do you remember how we got here?”

Cas's eyes narrowed, and he stood a moment, deep in thought. “No. My guess, at the present time, is that we are in the middle of a dream.”

“Both of us, inside the same dream?”

Cas tilted his head. “It is possible for angels to walk inside the dreams of humans.” Hatshepsut jumped up onto Cas's shoulders.

“Is the cat dreaming too?” asked Dean.

Cas’s smile lit up his face. “That's actually a good question.”

“ _S’il vous plait. Entrez_ ,” came a heavily accented voice from somewhere deep within the woods, towards the center of the circle. Dean looked at Cas inquiringly. Cas nodded, and they – man, angel and cat – proceeded into the fairy ring.

They passed through the ancient evergreen trees and into some kind of ornate room. It was difficult to say exactly where the dividing line between forest and chateau had been. Though the light was dim in here, it resembled a palace you'd see on some Discovery Channel show, with a high, frescoed ceiling, candle-lit chandeliers and a lot of fancy furniture.

A man sat at a small table. There was a silver platter on the table that contained a fresh apple pie.

“Please excuse zee rudeness,” said the man. He appeared to be in his forties, though Dean immediately pegged him as some kind of ageless creature. “I craved to sample zee offering before eet grew cold. You are, how you say, most generous.” The accent, like silk drawn over a razor blade, was probably French.

“Oberon?” asked Castiel.

“But of course.” The fairy king began to cut a piece of pie with a tiny, silver knife. “I am sorry to not have come to your residence, but I find I cannot abide zee dogs. Especially when zere are so many. Also, I do not trust zat cat,” he added, his eye narrowing as he pointed the silver knife towards Cas. Hatshepsut wagged her tail and appeared to smirk.

“Hatshepsut does what she will,” Cas told him. “She does not belong to me, nor I to her.”

“But you have pledged yourself to zee human, yes, angel?” asked Oberon. He had forked up a morsel of pie now, and rolled his eyes, evidently enjoying the taste. 

“Look, I don't wanna interrupt your snack time,” said Dean, “but can I see my brother?”

“Such impatience. Zee children zese days,” sighed Oberon, waving his small silver fork.

“Yeah. Sorry, Obie, but you kidnapped my brother,” said Dean. “Before we do anything, I wanna see him.”

“ _Mais oui_ , but of course, you can see zee boy,” said Obreron, snapping his fingers. Dean emitted a small yelp and hopped back, grabbing Cas's arm.

A wyvern ambled into the room, tilting his giant head at Dean, blinking jeweled eyes. The long, scaly poisoned tail switched. “Hi, Dean,” said Sam, who had come walking beside the dragon. 

“Sammy!” Dean rushed over to embrace his brother, but disappointingly, Sam caught his hand for a handshake instead. Dean felt a piece of paper pressed into his hand. He excitedly patted Sam on the back and shoved the paper into his jeans pocket, hoping Oberon wouldn’t notice the exchange.

Hatshepsut had leapt to the ground and approached the dragon. The great beast nosed at her, and she casually swatted at it with a paw, much like she had done with the hunting dogs. It flinched.

Sam reached up and patted its giant head. “Hey, it's OK,” he reassured the dragon.

“Wait, you're buddies with this thing now?” asked Dean.

“It's weird, Dean.”

“Yeah, I'd fucking say so!”

Sam spread out his large hands. “I mean, they're kind of like dogs, actually-“

“Really, really big scaly dogs with poison-ass tails?” Dean inquired.

Sam grinned. “Dean, they're smart. And you can teach them tricks. Look!” He backed away from the dragon a step or two and ordered, “Sit!”

To Dean's astonishment, the thing went down on its butt, and then stared inquisitively at his brother, switching the scorpion tail, golden eyes bright. Sam pulled something out of his pocket and tossed it to the wyvern, who happily snarfed it up, eagerly licking its lips.

Sam extended his hand, which held some colorful candies. “Swedish fish. They have a sweet tooth.”

“Oh, they're like my brother,” said Cas.

“Yeah, like Gabe, only a bit more scaly,” said Dean. Cas actually cracked a small smile at this.

“Your brother has zee sure hand weeth my dragons,” Oberon told Dean. “I have found zees to be, how you say, most useful.” Oberon snapped his fingers, and suddenly the entire room trembled and darkened. 

“Sammy?” said Dean. But as the light came back up, he realized Sam and the dragon were now gone. Dean swore under his breath. He felt Cas’s hand on his shoulder.

“Sam Winchester is human,” Cas calmly told Oberon. “He belongs in the world of men. Not here, in the fairy realm.”

“Zee boy was promeesed to me,” said Oberon, his eyes, just for a brief moment, growing dark. 

“Yeah. By Michael,” said Dean. “We gotta talk about that.”

Oberon waved a hand. “Zee feuding angels, zhey are not my business. Ever has eet been so. You are zee quarrelsome race, no?” he smirked at Cas. And then he turned to Dean, his face all business. “But zere is sometheeng you can do for me, ‘unter.”

“What do you mean?” asked Dean.

Oberon pursed his lips. “My beloved queen, Titania, she is ill. Zhere ees a magical potion that will heal her. Eet requires a rather obscure ingredient. You will obtain eet for me. And zhen we will talk, yes?”

“What ingredient?” asked Dean. “What do you want me to get?”

“Only apples. Such a simple thing, no?”

“Apples?”

“From zee Garden.”

Dean didn’t like the sound of this. “ _Which_ garden?”

“Zee original Garden,” said Oberon. He smiled, popped some pie in his mouth, and then snapped his fingers once again. And suddenly Dean and Cas were standing in the middle of the woods.

“Bastard didn't even offer me any of my own fucking pie!” groused Dean. Hatshepsut leapt off of Cas's shoulders and went streaking into the woods. “Look, when that guy talked about the garden, he meant-”

“ _The_ Garden, yes. You know it as the Garden of Eden, though that's not technically correct. Your Bible tends to-“

“Whatever,” Dean snapped. He really wasn’t up for a theological discussion right now. “How the hell are we supposed to find it? Are we even on the right damn continent?”

“We're still in the dream realm, as far as I can determine,” said Cas. “Oberon is reputed to be friends with the King of Dreams.”

“That's just dandy.” Dean suddenly felt into his pocket. He pulled out the crumpled piece of paper Sam had given him, and was disappointed to find that it was blank.

“By the way, did you happen to see where Hatshepsut has gone?” asked Cas, who was looking around.

Distractedly, Dean pointed, and started to walk towards where he'd seen the little black cat disappear into the dense trees. But then he stopped so abruptly that Cas walked right into him, nearly knocking him over.

“So, you are a hunter now, Dean?”

Dean goggled.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” Cas asked after Dean had remained silent for a very long moment.

“What, you see it too?” Dean asked of the enormous stuffed teddy bear now staring at them in the forest. “That's.... I think it's my brother's bear.” Hatshepsut was winding herself around its chubby stuffed legs.

“T. Bear,” said the stuffed toy, bowing theatrically. The bear spoke with kind of a funny accent. It sounded like a British accent, only kind of fake-y. Then Dean remembered that Sammy was just a little kid when he'd played with T. Bear. That was probably his idea of what a proper British bear would sound like.

“Well, uh, T,” said Dean. “We're kind of on a hunt right now. We're supposed to find the fucking Garden of Eden and grab some apples.”

“Yes, quite. As it happens, I can guide you there. But, you must listen well to what I tell you, and do everything exactly as I say,” the bear warned, aiming button eyes at Dean.

“This sounds familiar,” said Dean.

“Perhaps a fairy tale your brother was familiar with,” said Cas. “Regardless, I would advise doing what the bear tells you.”

Dean decided that whenever the hell he woke up, no matter what time of day, he badly needed a drink. But he followed as the stuffed bear walked deeper and deeper into the woods. Dean realized that he hadn't been keeping track of the path, and wondered if you could get lost in the middle of a dream. What would happen? Would you never wake up? Would it be like that Leo DiCaprio movie?

The party finally reached a clearing. There was a large boulder standing all alone in the middle of the field. 

T. Bear held a fuzzy paw out towards the boulder. “The angel will strike his sword upon the rock. It is a doorway. When it opens up, you will need to dash inside. The tree is there. Gather what apples you may, but nothing else. And then hasten back.”

Cas had already drawn his sword. “Did you harken to him?” he inquired, suddenly sounding all angel-y.

Dean shifted on his feet. “Yeah, yeah. Apples, nothing else. What do they got in there, dancing girls?”

“There will no doubt be temptations,” warned Cas, who appeared to be mulling it over. He abruptly grabbed Dean and pulled him into a kiss. And then he pushed him away. “But you will ignore them,” he instructed, his face stern.

Dean broke into a grin. “Got it, baby. No dancin' girls. Ready when you are.”

Cas scowled, but, evidently appeased, struck the rock with his sword. Sparks crackled, and the boulder suddenly split in two. 

Dean was off running inside before it had even completely opened. He found himself in an exotic garden. It was not exactly what he had expected, however. The trees were made of burnished gold and silver, and instead of fruits, they sported polished jewels and gemstones. 

“This is Eden?” Dean muttered. “Damn, it's tacky as fuck!”

He scouted around for a real tree, and spotted one up ahead. Standing in the shadow of a big platinum tree spouting fist-sized diamonds was a small apple tree. Dean rushed over to it and plucked off several ripe, red apples, which he caught in his T-shirt. “Thanks, buddy,” he told the tree. “And take my advice, you need better friends.”

He heard a rumbling, and looked back towards the split boulder entryway. It had already started moving to close up again. “Oh shit!” Gripping tight on the apples in his shirt, Dean ran as fast as he could towards the gate back to his world. “Oh shit oh shit oh shit,” he repeated, as he was too rushed to think of anything wittier to say.

He leapt headfirst towards the rocks....


	6. Chapter 6

Dean smacked down, face-first, on hard ground. 

He pushed himself up, and quickly realized it was actually a hardwood floor. 

“Ow!” he yelled, rubbing his nose as several apples spilled out from his T-shirt, rolling around on the floor. He was still dressed in the same clothes as in the dream. Cas, who had been lying asleep in bed, sat up, blinking at him. There was somebody pounding at the attic's trap door.

Dean pushed the bureau off the door and then opened it up. Gabriel immediately popped his head through. “What the hell have you two been doin'?” he demanded. He looked over at Cas, who was still naked in the bed. “I mean, you know, in general....”

“We were just visiting with Oberon,” said Dean. “Uh, I think.”

“They weren't supposed to go until I came back!” Raphael boomed from somewhere down below.

“We didn't go anywhere!” Dean protested.

“Then where did you get the magic apples?” asked Gabriel, who invited himself on up into the room. He picked up one of the apples from the floor and tossed it up. Cas darted over and snatched it out of the air before he could catch it. “Hey! And put on some pants, flasher.”

“That's a good question,” said Dean. “Why am I dressed like in the dream, but you're still naked?”

Cas shrugged. “It was _your_ dream,” he deadpanned.

“Are they decent up there?” came Raphael's voice. He popped his head through the trap door, but then instantly ducked back down when he saw Cas. 

“Halfway,” said Gabriel. “Which is probably the best you'll get with this crowd.” 

“I want to show them, Gabriel!” Raphael shouted up. 

“So show them!” Gabe yelled back. Dean suddenly had in mind that this must have been what it was like growing up in Castiel's family. Something was flung up through the hatchway. Gabriel caught it and tossed it to Dean. It looked awfully familiar.

“T. Bear!” said Dean, grabbing the worn plush toy.

“Grammy got another package, and wouldn't let us leave without taking it,” Gabriel told Dean. “She was following Raph around while he was trying to make his phone calls. I think the old bird likes him.”

“She does not!” Raphael yelled up.

“We need to fill you in on what's goin' on,” said Dean.

“Tell Cas to put on some clothes first!” came Raphael's voice.

“Aw, you've seen Cas much worse than this!” Gabe yelled back as he climbed down the ladder.

“What?” Dean asked Cas. “When?”

Cas only smiled mysteriously, pulled on a pair of pants and hastened down the ladder.

Dean fished in his jeans pocket, and was relieved to see the mysterious crumpled paper Sammy had passed him in the dream. He wondered if it was magicked in some way. He turned it over in his hands: it was the label from a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue Label. 

“Oh, shit,” Dean whispered. “Gabe!” he shouted, and hastened down the ladder. 

 

Dean was sitting on the kitchen floor, staring into the oven.

Cas came walking in. He sat down on the floor beside Dean. They were both silent for a moment.

“Do you think this will work?” Dean asked.

“If I didn't, I would not have agreed to the plan.” After mulling it over, Cas awkwardly stuck out an arm and placed it around Dean's shoulders. “Is this a comfort?”

Dean chuckled. “Yeah, it's nice, Cas. Hey, what's up with you, man? I mean, you seem to know some things about humans, but not some other things.”

“I- I haven't interacted with humans very much.”

“Really? Why not?”

Cas shrugged. “There was a prophecy at the time of my birth. It was said in time I would come to care for humans more than my angel brethren. So my father sheltered me from contact with humans. But I was very curious about you! Um,” he retreated, withdrawing his arm. “I mean curious about humans. In general. Of course.”

Dean grinned and grabbed back Cas’s arm. “Hey, you can be curious about me too. I like it.” Cas’s face got a little pink, and it was pretty cute. “But you also seem to know what you're doing, you know....” Dean pointed vaguely upwards, towards the attic bedroom.

“You mean sex?” asked Cas, which caused Dean to cringe a little. “Yes, certain of my brothers are quite avid consumers of pornography.”

“Uh, OK.” So Gabe's joke about porn on the helicopter evidently wasn't just a joke. Dean decided he should probably drop this line of inquiry. But then his curiosity got the better of him. “Um, you mean, even pornography, you know, with guys?”

“Of course,” said Cas. “I've observed many same sex pairings. Gabriel is especially fond of a certain video that features female triplets....”

“Seriously?” asked Dean. Unfortunately, the timer bell tinged just then, so he reluctantly picked himself up off the floor and, after giving Cas a hand up as well, went to retrieve his apple pie from the oven. It looked and smelled absolutely heavenly. He proudly waved it under Cas’s nose. 

“We’ll need to let it cool for a while,” Dean explained.

There was a loud whirring sound outside. “That will be my brother,” said Cas. Dean set the pie on a rack to cool, and they made their way outside. A helicopter hovered overhead. A rather large, square wooden crate dangled from a cable underneath it. Raphael was standing calmly in the middle of the lawn, gesturing for the perfect placement. The crate finally came to rest on the ground in front of the cabin, and he signaled a double thumbs up. The cable let loose, and the helicopter zoomed away.

Bobby went forward, hammer and crowbar in hand. Raphael untangled the cables and Bobby pried the top off. All four of the men worked together to slide the large, heavy cover from the crate.

Inside was a fairy ring. It wasn't the huge one that Raphael had photographed, but it was large enough for a few men to stand inside, and it had been dug up intact.

“Think this will work?” asked Dean, painfully aware that it was the same question he had just asked Cas.

“Well, it ain’t traditional, but I like thinkin’ outside the box,” said Bobby. “And accordin’ to my books of lore, there ain’t no rules against it.”

“Are you ready with your part, Dean?” asked Raphael.

“Pie’s cooling,” said Dean.

“I’ll need to get stuff arranged out here then,” said Bobby. “The moon’s full tonight, so we’ve picked a good time.”

 

The moon was indeed full, and it shown brightly on the little card table. Sitting smack dab in the middle of the table was a delicious looking apple pie. The table, in turn, was set in the center of a very recently transplanted fairy ring in the front yard of the little hunting cabin by the river.

A hooded figure suddenly appeared next to the table. After furtively taking a look around, he picked up the silver knife that was set out beside the pie and cut himself a generous slice. The knife glinted in the moonlight. And then he picked up a single plate, and attempted to serve himself.

A terrible shriek arose. Suddenly, something black and winged darted out of the pie. And then another, and another, until the figure was surrounded by an entire flock of cawing black birds. 

The plate dropped with a thud on the grass as the man tried to shoo away the shrieking birds.

“I’d stop right there, Oberon,” said Bobby, who emerged from the cabin, holding a shotgun. He was accompanied by a pack of dogs, who rapidly spread out to stand in a circle around the transplanted fairy ring where the table rested. “That's four and twenty black birds, by my count. More 'n enough to stop the likes of you.”

“Call zhem off!” Oberon yelled. “Call zhem off.”

Bobby whistled, and the birds flew off to perch on nearby trees. Bobby's dogs now stood guard around the fairy king, who was kneeling on the ground.

Dean, Cas, Gabriel and Raphael all came out of the cabin. “Oberon, I believe you have been dishonest in your dealings with us,” said Raphael. Even in the moonlight's dim glow, he did not look pleased.

Hatshepsut, who had been sitting on Cas’s shoulders, jumped down and ran across to the table. She now positioned herself between the fairy and the pie.

“Zees was not my fault,” Oberon protested. “Your family: you angels have too many feuds.”

“Then you admit you were dealing with Luci as well as Mike?” asked Gabe. “How long did you think it would take us to figure it out?”

“You cannot ally with both of us,” said Raphael.

“Eediots!” Oberon spat on the ground. “Such eediots! Does your brother tell you nozhing? Lucifer and Michel: zhey did not seek zee alliance!” 

Gabriel and Raphael looked at one another. “What?” asked Raphael.

“Zhey wanted zee weengs!”

“Wait, did he say … wings?” asked Dean.

Before anyone had a chance to debate the interpretation of Oberon's thick accent, there was a great commotion in the surrounding woods. Several basilisks emerged from the forest, sinuous bodies stalking on huge chicken legs, great beaks snapping, swiftly surrounding the men. The angels drew their swords, and the men drew weaponry. The dogs barked in protest, but there were just too many of the huge beasts, so Bobby called them off.

Hatshepsut streaked off the table and disappeared in to the woods.

“Dammit!” said Bobby. “Mirrors won’t work on 'em in the dark.”

“That is why I confine my activities until after dark. I find the evening air pleasant,” said Lucifer, who emerged from the woods and ambled towards the small group. He was a tall man with sandy hair and a pleasant expression. “Oberon,” he said, walking over to the edge of the fairy circle. “As I suspected, you are a prize idiot.”

“But zhey put out zee pie! With zee apples from zee Garden!” Oberon leaned closer to sniff. “With marjoram and ... thyme?”

“Yeah, I added some herbs,” said Dean. “They said they were supposed to addle fairy brains.”

“Oberon is already addled,” snorted Lucifer. “Long time no see, Gabe.”

“Luci, what the hell are you up to now?” asked Gabriel.

Lucifer pointed at Oberon, smily wryly. “Pie Boy over here was supposed to give us a spell to grow our wings back. But so far, it’s been what you might call less than successful. Why don’t you show us, Gadreel?”

Uriel emerged from the woods, poking the point of his angel sword into Gadreel’s back. Gadreel stumbled and fell to his knees. 

“Luci, he’s been injured,” said Gabe.

“Show them, Gadreel,” Lucifer insisted.

Gadreel gazed around sadly, and then hesitantly pulled off his shirt. He did something that to Dean looked like shrugging his shoulders.

Broad wings spread out from his back. But they looked damaged, as if all the feathers had been burnt off. 

“You were experimenting on him?” asked Gabriel. “Luci, that’s low, even for you!”

“No, actually, _Michael_ was using him as a guinea pig,” Lucifer chuckled.

“Guinea pig?” asked Cas.

“I’ll explain later,” Dean whispered.

“You need zee first apples!” protested Oberon. “From zee Garden! Zat ees what I tell you!” He stared over at the table. “But zhey have baked them into a pastry. A delicious, delicious pastry.” Oberon licked his lips.

“Well, you told me they’ve just been to the Garden. They can go again,” said Lucifer. 

“All this for wings?” asked Dean.

“They were taken from us,” said Gabriel, who was rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, it's kind of a sore point.”

“Yeah, I get it,” said Bobby. “You boys were supposed to watch over the Garden, make sure the snake didn’t slip in. But you messed up, so Daddy took away your wings. That's what happened, ain't it?”

Gadreel, who had dismissed his sad wings, looked as if he was about to cry. “I was tasked to guard the Garden. I failed.”

“You are an honorable warrior, Gadreel,” said Cas.

“You didn’t fail, Gad,” Gabriel told him. “Luci fooled you. He fooled a lot of us.”

“I really dislike it when you call me that,” Lucifer sulked.

“I know,” Gabriel told him. The brothers glared at each other across the fairy ring.

“At any rate,” said Lucifer, “I now need you to run a small errand for me, hunter. And here is some encouragement.”

“Sammy,” Dean whispered. His brother emerged from the woods, with some of Lucifer’s mooks holding a sword to his neck. “Are you all right?”

Shooting a glare at his captor, Sam managed to mutter, “Yeah, I'm OK.”

Lucifer glanced at his Rolex. “Now, I have a so little time, and a lot of hostages to slaughter, so let’s get to this.”

“What about the other people you’re holding?” Bobby demanded. “What about John Winchester, and Rufus Turner?”

“And Michael,” said Raphael.

“Michael can go hang himself,” Gabriel grunted.

“No, I want him back. So _I_ can hang him,” said Raphael.

“Raph, you’re an OK guy,” said Gabe.

Raphael turned to Lucifer. “We will not cooperate until you prove to us that everyone is in good condition.”

Lucifer smiled serenely at Raphael. “That's fine.” He turned to his men. “Kill the boy,” he said, waving a hand.

An angel blade flashed at Sam's throat. “No!” Dean screamed. He tried to rush forward, but Cas and Raphael held him back.

“I’ll go,” said Dean. “It’s all right, I’ll go. I'll go.” 

“Dean,” whispered Cas. “No. Lucifer will betray you!”

“I'll go,” Dean reiterated.

“Do you see?” asked Lucifer, who signaled for his man stand down. “Everything will go swimmingly if you simply cooperate.”

“But … I have one condition,” said Dean.

Lucifer sighed and rolled his eyes. “I don’t see as you are in the position to dictate terms,” he sniffed, making a big show of studying his fingernails. “But let’s have it, hunter.”

“You come along with me, Luci. I mean, into the Garden.”

Lucifer attempted to look disdainful, but even in the darkness, you could see the gleam of desire in his eye. “Into the Garden?” he asked. “Would that be … possible?”

Dean looked over at Castiel. The angel’s eyes were pleading. He mouthed, “No, Dean.”

“Yes, it will be great,” said Dean. “And … I guess I need to take a nap first.”

 

Oberon had a spell for enchanted sleep.

Or so he said.

Dean watched as the fairy king now bustled frantically around the cabin's kitchen: it had seemed large, especially for a rustic hunting cabin, but with Oberon and Bobby and Rufus now all rummaging around, bumping into one another seeking out various herbs and magical ingredients, it appeared cramped.

For efficiency's sake, Lucifer had confined all of his hostages – human, angel, and fairy – to the Winchester's cabin. Basilisks kept watch outside, along with Lucifer's loyal angel bodyguards. To Dean's immense relief, Sam and Rufus were here. To everyone's utter annoyance, however, so were Michael and John Winchester. The two heads of the respective families sat together on the couch in the small living room area, and both appeared more or less miserable. Dean noted that the two men even bore a certain physical resemblance, although Michael appeared at least a decade younger. It was always difficult to judge angel ages, however.

Dean felt somewhat sorry for them, so he stuck a bottle of whiskey on the coffee table in front of them, and then returned to the kitchen, where Oberon had turned him into some kind of sous chef. Bobby and Rufus were knocking heads again, searching in the bottoms of drawers and back corners of the pantry for essence of dried newt, cursing under their breath. Sam and Cas were just sitting at the kitchen table. It was too crowded in there, and getting stuffy, but no one wanted to shoo people away. 

“You can't do this, Dean,” Sam whispered as Dean tossed some aconite into a fry pan. Cas didn't say anything, but Dean could tell he agreed. “Just … we'll figure out something else.”

“We need to knock off Luci,” Dean muttered back. One of Lucifer's guards was stationed just outside, but he wasn't sure how much the guy could hear. “Believe me, he goes into the Garden, there's no way he's getting out. I barely made it out in time.”

“And this time...?” asked Sam. 

Dean avoided his eyes and nearly ended up slamming into Bobby, who was holding up a bezoar in triumph. “Look, I'll try to get out.”

“Who controls those chicken-legs dragons when Luci is gone?” asked Bobby, who had now gone fishing for the grate, which Oberon was using to make some fresh lemon peel. Dean had never heard of a magical potion that required lemon peel, but perhaps he wished to lend it some zest.

“The basilisks? I imagine Uriel controls the them in Lucifer's absence,” said Cas. “He is a sort of deputy for my brother.”

“Then we need to neutralize that bastard.”

“I volunteer,” grumbled Rufus. “I was retired before that asshole shanghaied me. Retired! And he drank up all my damned Johnny Walker!”

“I don't see how that's strategically possible,” said Cas. “Uriel is quite powerful on his own, and commands a strong allegiance from his men.”

“Thanks, Mr. Optimism,” said Dean. He immediately regretted his words, as Castiel looked downcast.

“Hey!” said Gabriel, who came into the kitchen with Raphael carrying a carton. 

“Did you guys get Gadreel to rest?” asked Sam.

Gabriel winked. “He'll be OK. He's one tough cookie. And see what we found!” He opened up the carton.

“Was that Grammy Harvelle's other package? What the hell was in it?” asked Bobby.

“There was more besides T. Bear?” asked Dean.

“Yeah, but we thought it was just a gift for me,” said Gabe, who tossed Sam a package. “Then we heard your story, kiddo.”

Sam stared at the package. “Grammy Harvelle gave us a carton of Swedish fish?”

“She must be an IKEA fan,” chuckled Gabe, who grabbed another package and started to open it.

“Can you use them, Sam?” asked Raphael, snatching the package from Gabriel's hands.

“Hey! I have low blood sugar,” said Gabe.

“There's no such thing, Gabriel!”

“Wyverns like to hunt just at dawn,” said Sam. He picked up the packages of candy, weighing them in his hand. “They have an incredible sweet tooth. If we could get these outside, where they could scent them, I bet we could attract one or two. What are you thinking, Raphael?”

“Zee wyvern, she does not like zee basileesk,” muttered Oberon. Everyone turned to look at him. He had actually stopped what he was doing – whatever it was – to stare at the bags of candy. 

“Wyverns like 'em less than we like 'em?” Bobby asked. 

Oberon bit his lip. For a brief second, he looked quite old. “You shall call zee wyvern, you shall not have to worry about zee basileesks. Nor Uriel.” A pan he had on the counter started to smoke. Cursing in several languages, Oberon leapt at it, dashing it into the sink. Bobby and Rufus returned to gathering ingredients with added energy, while Cas and Raphael counted out bags of candy, keeping them carefully out of Gabriel's greedy hands.

Dean turned back to the stove, but Sam grabbed his arm. “Dean, maybe this is crazy-” he whispered.

“Probably,” Dean told him.”

“Wyverns fly! If you get stuck in the Garden, maybe....”

“I'm gonna be sleeping, Sammy,” said Dean. “I mean, in the dreamtime. Even if you guys manage to call a wyvern with Gramma Harvelle's candy collection, it can't get to me in there.”

“But angels can get inside dreams!” Sam persisted. “T. Bear got in there somehow! Maybe an angel could ride....”

“You can't ride a damn wyvern, Sam,” said Dean “You know that, little brother.” He turned back to the stove, as he couldn't stand to see the look on his brother's face.

 

Time passed, and Dean occupied himself doing as Oberon instructed.

The dog door squeaked, and Hatshepsut came streaking into the kitchen. “Where have you been?” Cas asked as the cat leapt onto his shoulders.

“Ew, Castiel, what's it go in its mouth?” asked Raph. “Is it another rat?”

Cas accepted the morsel from his cat. “Fish head,” he said, handing it over to Bobby, who had his hand outstretched.

“Salmon. King salmon, I'd say.” He raised an eyebrow and moved over to peek out through the kitchen blinds. 

There was a loud knock on the front door, and Lucifer burst in along with several of his men. As Dean stood by, Uriel grabbed Sam and once again held a knife to his throat. “Oberon,” boomed Lucifer. “Where’s the sleep potion? I’m going to start cutting throats.”

Oberon was leaning against the kitchen counter. He raised his head to meet Lucifer's gaze. The fairy king had been almost completely silent for the past hour. Sweat trailed down his brow. He had also managed to dirty what looked like every single pot and pan in the kitchen. He held up a shot glass with a tiny amount of clear liquid in the bottom. “Here eet ees,” he said.

Lucifer stared skeptically at the glass. “That’s it?”

“Zat is zee sleep potion.”

Lucifer glared, and for a moment, Dean wondered if he was going to call this whole thing off. “Look, back off my brother, OK? I’m tired enough, I could probably fall asleep without the shot of whatever the hell your fairy friend cooked up.”

Lucifer turned to focus on Dean. “Outside,” he ordered.

“Dean,” said Cas, but he was restrained by Uriel’s sword. 

“Castiel, I will deal with you later. And believe me, I will deal with you.” Lucifer turned to Dean. “I said, outside. Now!”

Dean wanted to protest. He had at least envisioned going to sleep for what might be the last time on a nice, soft bed. He exited the front door, and was immediately surrounded by a couple of the repulsive, cawing basilisks, flapping their flightless wings at him. 

Lucifer pressed Oberon’s potion into Dean’s hands. “If you and I do not return swiftly, we will begin killing hostages, starting with your brother. Do you understand this? You do not want to betray me!”

Dean shrugged. He gazed towards the east, but dawn, alas, was still many hours away. Lucifer would find out soon enough that the hunters would not go down so easily. Or rather, if Dean’s plans worked, Lucifer’s lieutenants would find this out. 

Dean sat down on the dewy grass, gathering his jacket tighter around his shoulders. The night was cold, and Lucifer had not even brought out a blanket for him to bed down on. Perhaps it was for the best after all that Oberon had made him a sleeping potion. He glanced back at the cabin, where his brother and his father sat waiting for him. And Cas, of course – his faithful angel. There had been so much more to say to all of them, and now he wished he would have had a chance.

He closed his eyes and downed the potion in one gulp. It tasted like nothing at all. It was weird actually, and kind of unpleasant: he felt a liquid in his mouth, but there was neither flavor nor scent to it.

And then he was falling backwards….

 

“T. Bear?” Dean was walking in a familiar part of the woods, but he was all alone. “Are you here, buddy? I need your help again.”

The forest was quiet, and for a long moment, Dean was terrified that he had made the wrong call. What would Lucifer do if he couldn’t find the Garden again? Would it cost his brother’s life? 

“You have come to me again?” 

Dean sighed in relief as he heard the familiar fusty voice. “Yeah, we need another apple delivery.”

The bear tilted its large, fuzzy head at him, and stared with empty button eyes. “But you are not accompanied by your friend this time?” He sounded disappointed.

“Uh, I’m bringing another friend.” 

Just then, Lucifer arrived. “What is this ... _thing_?”

“T. Bear is going to lead us to the Garden. Right, T.?”

T. was silent for a moment. “I will lead you. What you do there is up to your own conscience.” The bear then turned on its furry heel and marched off into the woods. 

Dean was a bit befuddled at the remark, but he followed after the bear, and Lucifer followed Dean. They came, in time, to the clearing, and the boulder that stood as entryway to the Garden.

“I will leave you here,” said T. Bear. “You know what to do, Dean.” And, with one last button-eyed glance at Lucifer, he waddled off. 

“Uh, you need to strike your sword against the rock. And then the pathway will open up.” Dean left out the part about getting trapped inside. Lucifer would find out about that soon enough.

Lucifer shrugged. He drew his sword and struck it on the boulder. As before, it opened up into the ornate garden, with gold and silver and platinum jeweled trees. He nudged Dean with the sword, and then followed him inside. To Dean’s dismay, Lucifer did not see distracted at all by the treasures within.

“Where is the apple tree?” he demanded, poking the sword into Dean’s back.

“Be patient. It’s right up there!” Making certain to keep Dean ahead of him, Lucifer proceeded swiftly to the tree. He kept his sword drawn as he reached up and grabbed the nearest apple.

“Finally,” he said, “I’ll have my wings back!” 

Dean side-eyed the entrance to the garden. Last time there had been barely time to walk to the tree and then sprint back. Any moment, he reckoned, he’d need to break into a run if he had any hope of getting out. 

Lucifer bit into the apple he was holding. There was a great crackle of raw energy, like a lightning strike. Dean cried out as he found himself flung to the ground in a great wave of pressure. He sat up, panicked that the entrance was closing again, but instead he beheld Lucifer now unfolding a pair of wings. 

They were a hideous sight: even worse than Gadreel’s burnt wings. There was nothing but bone and twisted cartilage left to them. Enraged, Lucifer shook then and shrieked. “My wings!”

And then there was a familiar rumbling. The entryway was closing. Dean made to get up, but Lucifer struck him across the face with his sword hilt. “What did you do to me?” Lucifer shrieked. “This isn’t the Garden! These aren’t my true wings!”

Dean struggled up once again. Lucifer moved to strike him, but this time Dean caught his arm, and they wrestled on the ground. Meanwhile, the ground shook as the only escape slowly began to close.

“Let me go!” Dean yelled. He tried to shove Lucifer away, but the angel was too strong.

And then, out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw something large and dark coming for them. Lucifer cried out as he was knocked out of the way.

Dean felt himself lifted up by some gigantic, dark-winged beast, and then they were hurtling for the exit, the great black wings beating at the air, the ground shaking, the boulder popping and cracking.

With a loud boom, the entrance closed.

Dean and the winged creature skidded together on the forest floor, just beyond the boulder. Dean struggled to untangle himself. He got up on his knees, wiping blood from his mouth, and beheld Castiel: but Cas as he’d never seen him before. Two great, dark-feathered wings now arched from the angel’s back. 

“Cas! You-“ Dean was speechless. “It is you, Cas? Isn’t it?”

Cas gave the wings a casual flap, and then smiled. “Yes. I have my wings, Dean!” He tilted his head, looking very much like some kind of great bird. “I had a bite of your apple pie. The one you made for Oberon.”

“Really? Because Lucifer tried eating an apple in there and…. Well, it didn’t work out for him.”

“Oberon says it’s because for the spell to work, you must have a true heart. I’m not certain what that means, but at least in my case, it appeared to be effective.”

“Yeah, I’ll say,” said Dean. “It’s…. You’re incredible, Cas.”

“Thank you.” Cas gave the wings another, completely gratuitous flap. He was definitely enjoying this. 

Dean tried to clear his head, despite the presence of a freaking _winged angel_ standing right there in front of him. “Should we get back? We need to save everybody!”

“They were doing fine when I left,” Cas told him. “When Hatshepsut stole a salmon from the fishermen downstream, they were alerted to the presence of Lucifer’s basilisks. They dislike the creatures as they scare the fish, and as all the fishermen in question were hunters, they soon laid siege to Lucifer's minions.”

“Oh, cool,” said Dean. He had never interacted much with the fishermen, as they had seemed a bit crazy, but more power to them.

“Meanwhile, my brother Raphael figured out how to rig up a video camera and a monitor to show the basilisks their own images. It wasn't as effective as mirrors, but it managed to disable them. At that point, your brother used Gabriel's Swedish fish to call on a flock of wyverns.”

“A whole flock? Wow! And I missed it!” Dean marveled.

“Raphael has it all on video. In high definition!”

Dean grinned. “Well, I need to get back anyway. Soon. I mean, pretty soon. I mean, I wouldn’t want people to worry. Too much.” As he spoke, he edged closer and closer to Castiel, who he hoped would get the hint. 

Cas arched an eyebrow, and then Dean felt himself pulled into what you might call a wing hug. “So, you don’t mind this?” Cas asked.

Dean leaned in for a lingering kiss. “You know damn well I don’t. Cheeky bastard.”

“To get back, you have only to wake up.”

“How about we fix it so I wake up with a smile on my face?”

 

“Dean! Wake up, boy!”

Dean sat up, blinking awake. He was still lying on the grass beside the cabin, though someone had thought to cover him up with a blanket.

There was a lot going on. Several basilisks lay dead on the ground, and there were now some state troopers walking around. Sheriff Jody Mills had arrived, and she was standing talking to a rather agitated looking Uriel.

“Transportation of supernatural creatures across state lines: I'm gonna have to call in my friend, Lieutenant Henricksen over at the FBI,” she tutted. “We're talking federal crimes here.”

“But, it wasn't my idea,” Uriel protested.

“What about kidnapping? Did you write that down?” Rufus urged her.

Dean felt hands go under his armpits, lifting him up. “You awake, kid?” asked Bobby.

“Yeah. Yeah. Looks like interesting times here!” said Dean. He saw several of the fishermen had surrounded one of the basilisk bodies and were starting to apply a chainsaw.

“I guess basilisk makes good chum. But you need to get inside now, Dean. There's trouble.”

Dean turned and nearly stumbled back into Bobby: there was now a wyvern perched on top of the cabin. Its jeweled eyes turned to him, and it switched its poisonous tail. And then he noticed a small black patch – Hatshepsut the cat was curled up on its back. The cat awoke, yawned, and started kneading on the scales. The dragon nosed the cat, and then settled down.

“Yep, it's a new world order here,” said Bobby. “But we'll have time for that later. Come on!”

Dean let himself be led inside the cabin. He was surprised to see Oberon was still there, and looking quite serious. He sat at the head of the kitchen table. Michael, Raphael, Sam and Cas were all gathered around. John sat over on a couch in the living room, looking miserable.

“Dean,” said Raphael. “We were discussing certain contractual matters with Oberon.”

“I still require zee hostage,” stated the fairy king. “Zis was zee agreement.”

“Wait, still?” asked Dean. “Did you ask Jody....”

“Sheriff Mills has no say in fairy dealings,” said Bobby. “Unfortunately.”

“Dean, look, I was thinking,” said Sam. “I have a knack for handling dragons, as it turns out....”

“No,” snapped Dean. “You're going away to law school, and that's final. There's gonna be at least one Winchester who's got a real job.”

“Dean,” said Sam.

“I'm your hostage, Oberon,” Dean told him. “That was the original contract, right?”

Cas's eyes started to tear up. 

“I wish I could rip up the contract, Dean,” said Raphael. “As some parties weren't dealing in good faith,” he added, glaring at Michael.

“I've told you, I'll step down as CEO,” sighed Michael.

“Dealing with fairies, Michael? What would Father say? No offense,” Raphael added, towards Oberon, who smirked.

“I'll go,” said John. Everyone turned to look at him. “It was my bargain. I'll go.”

“Dad-” said Dean.

The room rumbled and then darkened. Oberon had abruptly gotten to his feet. He was now wearing a crown and royal robes. “You give yourself over, John Winchester?” he asked. His voice echoed oddly in the small cabin.

“Wait,” said Dean. “Dad!”

John gritted his teeth. “Yes.”

All light was sucked out of the room. There was a snapping and popping, as several china cups cracked.

The lights came back on. There was a whiff of ozone. Both Oberon and John had disappeared.

“Dad?” said Dean. There was yelling outside, so they ran to the door.

The transplanted fairy circle next to the cabin was gone: burnt to a crisp. There was nothing there but a smoking ruin.

“I guess Oberon got what he wanted,” said Bobby. He ventured outside to talk to Sheriff Mills. The angels accompanied him.

“I'm truly sorry about your father,” Cas told Dean. “Please believe me, he will be well, there. And perhaps you may still see him some day.”

Dean nodded. “Thanks, Cas.” Castiel went to speak with his brothers.

Dean and Sam stood in the doorway. “Dean, you shouldn't have volunteered-”

“Dad did it for you, you know.”

“Dad's an asshole!” Sam stormed, but there were tears in his eyes.

“Dad's an asshole, yeah. But he tried, you know.”

“But it's all screwed up now, Dean! I can't go off to school. That would leave you running the business all alone.”

“No,” said Dean. “You're going to school, and that's final. I got an idea.”


	7. Chapter 7

The sun shown bright and clear on the town's airfield. A moose grazed serenely in the tall grass nearby. Overhead, a sinuous, winged beast scudded on an air current and then hastened away on dark wings.

A small group had gathered in the parking lot.

“I gotta get back,” Ellen told Dean. “The phone's been ringing off the hook! You folks take care now,” she told the angels with a wave. Dean shut the door of her minivan for her. The brand new magnetic sticker on the side of the van said, “Dragon Tours.” She jumped in the driver's seat and, with a couple beeps of the horn, drove off.

Michael nodded curtly to Dean and, with a deep sigh, mounted the helicopter. 

Raphael paused to shake his hand. “I sure wish I could stick around. And please contact me with questions about photographic equipment. You have my cell number.”

“A lot of people are bringing their own cameras, but yeah,” said Dean.

Raphael started to say something else, but his cell phone rang. He shook his head apologetically and got into the helicopter.

“Are you feeling OK, dude?” Dean asked Gadreel.

The tall angel actually smiled. “I am much recovered. And Raphael has invited me to continue my services in protecting him now.”

“That's good to know.” Gadreel waved and got into the helicopter.

“Is that everything?” asked Gabriel, who'd been stowing luggage away in the helicopter's various storage compartments.

“I think so,” Cas told him. 

“So you think things will be different, with Raph taking over as CEO?” Dean asked Gabe.

“Naw. Actually, he's just as scheming as Mike. But it'll be a new set of schemes.” 

Dean rolled his eyes. 

“Well, keeps things interesting,” said Gabe.

“We really gotta thank your company for your investment in Dragon Tours,” Dean told him.

“Hey, we left you shorthanded,” said Gabe. “We had to make it right. You gonna be OK here, baby bro?”

“I will be fine, thank you Gabriel,” said Cas. 

Gabe shook his head, and then wrapped Cas in a hug. 

Gabe pointed at Dean. “You be good, or I'll come back and kick your ass!”

Dean grinned as Gabe made the “I'm watching you” sign and darted into the helicopter's pilot seat. Dean stood with Cas, waving as they departed. The helicopter dipped as if in greeting, and then flew off and disappeared over the horizon.

Dean clasped Cas's hand. “So, you ready for your new life, as a hunter?”

“Is the terminology correct? It is my understanding we no longer kill, but only photograph our quarry.”

“Yeah, we're latching into the eco-tours market. Seems like a good thing.”

They began to walk towards Dean's car. “By the way, there was something I've been meaning to ask you, Cas.”

“Yes?”

“You know how in the Garden, you sprouted wings?”

“Yes.”

“Was that just a dream thing, or is that real?”

Cas smiled mysteriously. “Would you like to find out?”

Dean grinned back.

“Oh hell yeah!”


End file.
